


Physical (you're so)

by RedShiloh



Category: The Hobbit (2012) RPF
Genre: AU, M/M, coffee shop AU, minor alcohol abuse, rent boy AU, will contain references to noncon in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 43,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedShiloh/pseuds/RedShiloh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s a rent boy. It’s not the best job but it’s not the worst either. He knows it and he’s good at it. Then one day he runs into Aidan, Mr. Tall Dark and Deliciously Irish and things go from good to better to amazing. But what happens when his two lives begin to clash? Will Aidan still be around when it all starts to come crashing down?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Dean sets foot in the Pogue Mahone, it’s completely by accident. He’s lost looking for his newest client’s address and he knows it’s somewhere in this area, but he has no idea where.

And then, just to add the cherry to the towering sundae of shitness, it starts belting it down with rain.

He stumbles into the small café with a curse on his tongue and his useless umbrella dripping at his side, too small to be of any actual use. In fact, the only patch of him that’s still dry is his chest. Both arms and shoulders are soaked making his charcoal jacket resemble some kind of drowned humbug.

The café is reasonably quiet with a few customers taking shelter from the rain behind overly sized mugs of steaming coffee. There are two people behind the counter, an older man whose face seems to be comprised almost entirely of a wide toothy mouth and two black eyebrows which sit like caterpillars, wriggling and jumping above his eyes.

And the second. He’s closer to Dean’s age, perhaps a little younger, and definitely a lot more to Dean’s tastes. For lack of a better term, he is bloody beautiful. Tall and dark and deliciously Irish. Though he may only know that because at that moment he is shouting something over to the other man in the most velvety soft accent Dean has ever heard. Is that Dublin? Southern for sure… Dean’s not particularly good with accents but he can pick out the lyrical lilt with relative ease.

“Are you buying something or just browsing?” The older of the two asks him and, weirdly, he is Irish too. Although his accent has the sharper twang of the North to it.

“Um,” Dean swallows and glances desperately at the overhead board. He settles for an Americano, it’s the simplest and safest thing on the menu.

“Oh come on.” Northern Irish rolls his eyes and his caterpillar brows jump up towards his hairline. “Do you want some vanilla to go with that vanilla? We make damn good coffee here, choose something worth making yeah?”

Dean stares at him, too taken aback to feel offended—did the barista really just insult his coffee tastes? _Really?_ Are they allowed to do that?

There’s a lyrical laugh and Dublin is smiling at him, his brown eyes creasing with warmth under severe brows. “Sorry about Jimmy,” he says. “He’s a bastard. Pretend he’s not here and tell me what you really want, even—“ and here Dublin fires a glare at Jimmy, “ _even_ if it’s an Americano.”

When Dublin smiles at him, Dean can’t help but feel like he’s melting a little, the guy should come with a warning about that voice of his.

“Medium white mocha?” He doesn’t mean to say it like it’s a question, but that’s how it comes out.

Dublin’s smile grows, if that was even possible, and he winks. “Sweet for the sweet,” he chuckles and sets about making Dean’s drink. As Dublin is busy, Dean braves approaching the very intimidating Jimmy who is watching him like Dean imagines a shark would watch a minnow.

“You’re a kiwi, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Dean nods. Jimmy’s eyes narrow and then, finally, he smiles, wide and open.

“That’ll do,” he says and Dean isn’t sure he quite understands what it’ll do for. “You didn’t by any chance notice the name as you came in did you?”

Dean shakes his head, no; he was too busy trying not to drown in the downpour. Jimmy laughs and smacks a broad hand on the counter.

“You’re standing in the Pogue Mahone, lad,” Jimmy grins at him. “Owned by yours truly. Don’t suppose you know what Pogue Mahone means?”

Again Dean shakes his head.

“It means English fuck off,” Jimmy says loud enough that Dean notices a few affronted glares shot their way.

“That’s nice?” Dean says somewhat tentatively.

Dublin appears with Dean’s drink in hand and he passes it over, shaking his head. “It doesn’t mean that,” he confides in Dean. “It actually means ‘kiss my arse’. Offensive enough but not quite as anarchistic as Jimmy here likes to pretend.”

“Watch your mouth, Turner,” Jimmy barks but there’s humour in his tone. “Anyway, New Zealand, that’s like the Ireland of the pacific isn’t it? Consider yourself an honorary Celt.”

While Jimmy’s speaking, Aidan leans in close to Dean, crooking his finger to indicate Dean should come closer.

“Save yourself,” he mutters low into Dean’s ear and Dean can feel warm breath on his neck and tries not to think how much of a thrill it is. “Get out while you still can.”

But Dean doesn’t. He stays long enough to get directions and to discover that the mocha is, quite possibly, the finest mocha he has ever tasted. That, combined with the allure of Dublin (he still needs to learn his real name, something Turner?), means that Dean is hooked and he will come back to the Pogue Mahone again and again as often as he needs his caffeine and sugar fix.

 

* * *

 

When Dean refers to his work and his clients, not many people realise what he really means. They are clients of course, that part is not a lie. But where other people will be taking clients into boardrooms and meetings, Dean takes his to bed.

It’s not as bad as it sounds, not in his eyes anyway. He doesn’t like to tell many people because he’s sick of the stigma and the fact that when people find out, they go one of two ways. Either they see him as a weeping Madonna figure who needs saving from the big bad Johns, or they see him as the lowest of the low, not fit even to live in the gutter.

Dean prefers to stick to anonymity and a certain amount of discretion when it comes to his living, free from the judgmental eyes of the ignorant masses.

That isn’t to say he loves his job, because he doesn’t, but it’s not quite as soulless and demeaning as people like to paint it. A lot of his clients are regulars and just normal people looking for a bit of companionship. Dean is popular enough and smart enough that he can pick and choose his clientele to some extent, so if he comes across anyone particularly creepy, he doesn’t have to put up with them for long.

Dean’s good at what he does. He can’t quite remember how he got into it, he thinks maybe it had something to do with a relationship gone wrong in his younger wilder days, but the fact is he knows the job. He knows what to do and how to handle it. He feels a hell of a lot more comfortable in bed with a client than he would trying to pretend he knows just what the hell he talking about in a boardroom.

This particular client of his is the first new one he’s had in quite some time.  They were nervous on the phone and didn’t want to give him their full name, instead referring to themselves as Guy. He doesn’t mind, he’s been told to use all kinds of names over the years. From the strange, like Daddy or Bomber, to the sublime, like one particular client who insists on being called ‘the great and powerful’ when he climaxes.

This new client, Guy, he lives in a fancy high rise apartment a few streets down from the Pogue Mahone. He’s pleasant, very polite and painfully English and greets Dean on the street with an awkward handshake that almost looks like it’s going to turn into a hug but doesn’t quite make it.

Dean regards the man with wry amusement. He’s taller than Dean, quite a lot taller, and he’s handsome. That’s always a plus for Dean, it never hurts when they’re lookers. Guy doesn’t appear too old, possibly just over a decade older than Dean and he has a pair of very striking dark blue eyes lined with dark lashes, the kind that are so dark it’s like they’re wearing eyeliner.

“You didn’t have to come down to meet me,” Dean says, smiling to take any edge off his words. “I’ve got your apartment number, I would’ve found it.”

“Our lobby’s locked; you need to sign in to get through.”

“I would’ve just said I was a relative of yours,” Dean says, then shrugs. “Or something. I would’ve called you if I needed.”

“Right. Sorry. I’m… not quite sure how to do this,” Guy admits, blushing.

“It’s fine,” Dean touches Guy’s arm. “You’re doing fine. It was nice of you. Quite sweet actually.”

“I like your accent,” Guy blurts out.

“Thanks,” Dean smiles. “I like yours too. Northern right?”

Guy nods and escorts Dean up to his apartment which, as it turns out, takes up the entirety of one of the top floors.

“Penthouse, nice.” Dean nods appreciatively as Guy leads him through. Everything is so decadent, white marble counters, black leather couches, striking red decor on the walls. Dean gets the impression it was decorated by a professional designer rather than by Guy himself. This Guy’s a highflyer it seems, definitely one to keep hold of if he doesn’t turn out to be a weirdo.

“Do you want a drink or anything?” Guy asks. Dean turns to face him. He shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over the back of one of the leather couches and steps right up close to Guy, standing toe to toe.

“No thanks,” he says quietly, huskily, letting his voice take on that dulcet tone he knows drives most people wild. “I just want you.”

Guy flushes bright red and he chokes. Dean takes a step back. “Hey,” he says, reaching out to touch Guy’s arm. “It’s ok, look I’ll back off ok? That was too forward we can go slow.”

“No it’s not that.” Guy shakes his head and he steps closer to Dean. His hand hovers some inches from Dean’s arm, hesitant, before finally making contact, holding him close. “Sorry, this is just so new to me. I don’t want you to think I’m some great big pervert or something.”

Dean smiles, he’s heard this kind of thing before, this he knows how to deal with. “Guy,” he says evenly and he makes sure he has Guy’s full attention, those deep blue eyes staring back into his. “Trust me, I’m not going to think you’re a pervert, not unless you want to do something really weird and even then I’m probably game. Look I don’t want to be crude or anything, but this is my job, it’s nothing new for me. It’s just sex. I happen to love sex, sex with you would actually be pretty great.” He looks Guy up and down appreciatively. “Yeah,” he confirms. “Definitely great.”

“You enjoy this?” Guy asks, frowning. “Really?”

“Sure,” Dean says and it’s not a complete lie. Of course he enjoys sex; he’s a hot blooded male. It’s just that in his eyes, when he’s working, it’s work; it’s different to sex. But he knows the clients love to think that he’s loving it as much as them, they love to hear him moaning and begging and telling them that no one’s been as good as them, no one’s fucked him as soundly as they’re fucking him. Dean’s job is more than just sex, it’s giving his clients what they want, giving them the dream.

He leans up and kisses Guy, tentatively at first, then with more force as Guy returns the kiss. Guy’s lips are soft and warm and his mouth is fresh and clean and it’s not bad at all. Guy’s hand snakes round Dean’s waist until he’s hugging him close, fingers curling into the material of his shirt, pulling it free of his pants.

Dean moans, quietly, just a hint of a sigh, suggesting he’s getting into it, his desire mounting slowly with the cautious heat of the kiss. His hands reach up; wrapping around Guy’s neck and pulling them flush against each other.

“Take me to the bedroom,” Dean says, leaning back out of the kiss and looking up at Guy with hooded eyes.

“Yes.” Guy nods with growing resolution. “Yes.” He practically scoops Dean up in his strong arms and he carries him through into a room decorated much the same as the living room. There’s an expansive bed in the middle draped in red and black sheets. Guy manoeuvres them to that bed and Dean finds himself sinking down into the plush sheets. He pulls Guy with him, dragging that long body over his, enveloping him. He moans and sighs and whispers Guy’s name over and over against his skin, begging him to please, please just take him now, fuck him.

And Guy does. He strips them both naked and stares down at Dean. He growls, actually growls as he presses them together, rubbing friction against their cocks and sending sparks of pleasure down Dean’s legs to his toes where they curl in the silky sheets.

“I want to fuck you,” Guy grinds out and if his voice, thick and deep with lust, isn’t the most erotic thing Dean has ever heard. That voice is like velvet and pebbles, that is a voice for porn. “I want to be inside you. I want you to feel me in you.”

“Do it,” Dean gasps, he writhes in the sheets, wanting to touch himself, to touch Guy. “Fuck me, do it now.”

Guy reaches into his bedside drawer and pulls out the lube and the condoms. (somewhere in the back of Dean’s mind he ticks off the box of pros for this client; not having to remind them to wrap it up). And then Guy is on him, scissoring lubed fingers into him and Dean is gasping and fisting the sheets and fucking himself on Guy’s long, thick fingers and oh, oh, oh he just wants to feel completely filled by Guy, right now.

“Do it,” he groans out. “Please Guy do it now.”

He hears the tearing of a wrapper as Guy rolls a condom over himself and then Guy’s cock is pushing into him and he cries out, a wail of pure ecstasy as he feels Guy going balls deep. His hand snakes up to fist his cock but Guy stops him.

“Let me,” Guy tells him, and then Guy’s stroking him. He strokes with each of his thrusts, filling Dean again and again until Dean is a writhing, sweating mess in the sheets.

“Guy.”

“Richard,” Guy—no Richard growls. “Call me Richard I want to hear you say my name when you come.”

Dean tries the name out for size. Richard, Richard, he says it again and again letting it roll off his tongue. It’s not long before he’s shouting it, shooting his come between them and riding out Richards frantic thrusts until he’s coming too. Richard gasps and groans and shudders his release and Dean holds him close, stroking fingers over Richard’s back, his legs spread on either side of Richard’s hips, feet hooked behind his thighs.

It’s a long moment before Richard stirs and rolls off him, pulling out and tying a knot in the spent condom.

“So, Richard, huh?” Dean says, still a little breathless.

Richard groans, draping an arm over his eyes. “I wasn’t planning on telling you that,” he confesses.

“Hey, Richard,” Dean waits until Richard is peering at him out of the corner of one of his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Confidentiality and me… I’m more tight-lipped than a priest, ok? You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Richard sighs. He stares up at the ceiling, him and Dean lying side by side, completely spent. “Thank you, Dean,” Richard says finally, and Dean knows he doesn’t mean just for the secrecy. Feeling a rare moment of fondness for the other man, Dean leans over and kisses him once, gently, at the corner of his mouth.

“Richard, it has been my absolute pleasure,” he smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean learns Dublin's name and Adam shows his face. Everyone needs a dose of fabulous fictional Adam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if anyone cares but the title comes from the song of the same name by Nine Inch Nails which I've basically been listening to on repeat for days now and has infiltrated this fic in many ways.

“My name’s Aidan,” Dublin tells him on one of his returning visits to the Pogue Mahone.

“Dean.” It’s late evening, not long before closing and quiet enough that Aidan is working alone and Dean can afford to linger by the counter and talk to him for a while.

“So, Dean, what brings you into my life all of a sudden? Are you new to the area?”

“Just this part of town, I live on the East side. Business brought me this end. The coffee and your pretty face kept me here.” Dean wonders if perhaps that was too much.

Aidan doesn’t seem to think so, he lights up, delighted.

“I’ll tell you what man, that earns you a free drink for sure. Grab yourself a seat; I’ll bring it out to you when I’m done.”

Dean does as is requested and drops down into one of the comfortable armchairs towards the front of the shop. The décor of the café isn’t much to be desired, but it’s comfortable and has its own unique charm. With the mismatched chairs and tables and the large dark wood counter it feels like a hipster’s dream, very shabby chic.

Aidan’s by his side a few minutes later carrying two mugs. He eases himself into the seat next to Dean’s and places the mugs on a cargo box that stands as a kind of coffee table. Dean hadn’t realised the drink would come with company, but he can’t say he’s too unhappy about it, in fact he’s quite pleased and perhaps the tiniest bit giddy when Aidan flashes him with one of his generous smiles.

“So, Dean the kiwi, where in New Zealand are you from?”

“Auckland. You’re from Dublin, right?”

Aidan bobs his head.

“Clondalkin, South Dublin. It’s shit, most famous for a bunch of rocks.”

Dean nods; he takes a sip of his coffee and frowns. It tastes different, kind of fruity. Aidan’s watching him keenly and he’s smiling around his thumb nail as he worries at it.

“Do you like it? I put a pump of raspberry syrup in, thought I’d try something new for you.”

Dean sips the drink again; it is actually, very nice. The fruit mixes perfectly with the bitter chocolate adding a pleasing combination to his palate.

“Thanks,” he says and Aidan reaches out and smacks his shoulder and laughs.

“I live to serve, man.”

 _So do I_ , thinks Dean, the irony not lost on him.

 

* * *

 

Dean’s apartment is nothing compared to Richard’s, but then again, he doesn’t suppose there are many apartments that match the playboy luxury that is Richard’s penthouse.

Dean’s apartment is cosy and filled with all the little touches that unknowingly give clues to a person’s life. The long hallway cuts the apartment into two sections with the bedroom and bathroom on one side and the kitchen and living room on the other. Dean likes keeping it separate. Sometimes he brings clients back, if he trusts them enough. They always stay in his bedroom, he doesn’t like the thought of them rooting through his living room where there are pictures of his family on the table tops and his art equipment stashed in organised chaos in the corner (he fancies himself an amateur painter and photographer).

He has two large closets in his bedroom, one for his clothes and another dedicated to an extensive collection of sheets and blankets. Dean doesn’t like sleeping in the same sheets he entertains his clients in so he goes through a lot of frequent washing. He’s damn near a master at changing a duvet in less than two minutes by now and five star hotels would be envious of his corner tucks.

There ‘s a knock at his door and two seconds later, it’s swinging open. Adam’s standing in the hallway, a bag of Chinese in one hand and a stack of DVDs in the other. Of course it’s Adam. Adam is his landlord with personal space issues, in that he has no sense of personal space. He has the key to Dean’s apartment and it’s likely that he uses it just as often as he uses his own. It’s a good thing Dean thinks the bloody world of Adam so he doesn’t mind.

“Right then, I’ve got eighties B movies and nineties rom-coms so pick your poison, Bruce Campbell or Cameron Diaz?”

“Campbell,” Dean decides. After their John Hughes marathon last week he doesn’t think he could handle another rom-com for some time.

 Adam nods and thrusts the DVDs into Dean’s hands for him to sort out while he gathers plates and cutlery from the kitchen. It’s unlikely that either will use the plates, opting instead to eat right from the boxes, but it’s the thought of civility that counts.

Dean picks out Army of Darkness from the B movie pile (which is basically just a collection of Bruce Campbell’s greatest hits if he’s honest), and pops it into the DVD player while Adam drops down onto his couch, spreading the takeaway boxes out on the table.

“I got you Chow Fun but we can go half and half if you like,” Adam says, already distributing half of his Moo Shu pork into Dean’s box. Dean accepts the food without comment and twirls a noodle around his fork as the opening credits begin rolling.

They sit together in familiar comfort, eating their food and making passing comments about the quality of the effects and how they would rate Bruce Campbell on levels of attractiveness. Adam would do him in a heartbeat, Dean not so much.

“How’s tricks?” Adam asks around the time Ash stumbles into the haunted windmill on TV. There’s a smirk on his lips as he says it; ever since Adam’s learnt about Dean’s work he’s made it his mission to ask how Dean’s tricks are doing as often as possible. Adam’s one hell of a punny bastard.

“Tricks are good,” Dean says around a mouthful of beef and pork, and then by way of distraction, he asks, “How’re things with Orlando?”

Adam gives a telling smile as he stabs a green bean onto his fork. “Perfect, wonderful!”

“Have you asked him out yet?”

“No, but we totally had a meet cute the other day, it was magnificent.”

“Adam, you already know him, you can’t have more than one meet cute,” Dean says, however Adam appears to have gone selectively hard of hearing and he waves his fork in the air.

“So I went to one of his shows, right? That new one at the playhouse.”

“Is it any good?”

“So good! He’s so talented and beautiful. So I went, right, and it wasn’t very full, in fact it was pretty empty which is just awful because how can people not realise how great he is? And as I was leaving Orlando was coming out from backstage and we bumped into each other and he recognised me. He remembered my name!”

“That’s great, Adam,” Dean says smiling. “Maybe next time ask him out yeah?”

It’s through Dean that Adam and Orlando even know each other.  Orlando used to be on the same scene as Dean, he was the one who showed Dean the ropes when he was still green and frightened beyond all measure. Orlando’s confident to the point of being a little cocky, but he’s good natured with an unerring amount of patience and Dean has a wealth of gratitude and respect for him. A year ago Orlando decided he’d had enough of the industry and he’d made the decision to get out. Now he pays his way through waiting on tables while he tries to get his big break in his true passion, acting. Dean can’t say the idea of spending your days waiting on people has all that much appeal to him, but Orlando seems happy.

Adam’s been head over heels in love with Orlando since the day Dean introduced them and perhaps one day he’ll get it together enough to actually ask him out instead of just pining from afar like a love-struck puppy.

“Whatever,” Adam huffs. “What about you? How’re things going with the sexy Dubliner?”

“There’s nothing going on.” Dean looks down at his half eaten box of Chinese, wishing not for the first time that he had never mentioned anything to Adam. Not a day has gone by since that Adam doesn’t call him or text him for updates. He thinks maybe Adam views it as payback for Orlando.

“Dean, please, you travel halfway across the city for a cup of coffee, like hell nothing is going on.”

“It’s good coffee,” Dean says defensively. “Really good coffee. The best coffee.”

“Served to you by a gorgeous curly haired god whose number you should totally ask for.”

“Tell you what. If you get Orlando’s number… off him, not off me, then I’ll get Aidan’s number.”

Adam glares at him and neither of them are even pretending to watch the movie now.

“Please,” Adam snorts.

“What? It’s a fair deal.”

“No it’s not because I’m me and you’re you and I’m pretty sure you could get the prime minister’s number if you so wanted.”

“Adam, you’re a peach.” Dean ruffles Adam’s hair, knocking his glasses and Adam glowers at him.

“Stop it,” he grumbles. Dean doesn’t stop, Dean grins and puts his Chinese down and crawls over the couch until he’s partially draped over Adam, wrapping him in a bear hug.

“You’re such a catch Adam, you’re so beautiful you’re the biggest catch in the ocean, you’re Moby Dick, you’re Orlando’s Moby Dick!”

“Dean!” Adam squawks and struggles under Dean’s grip but Dean holds on tight. “Oh my God you’re such a jerk, I hate you!”

“I love you too,” Dean laughs, planting sloppy kisses on Adam’s forehead.

“Asshole,” Adam says and laughs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mixing business with pleasure is never advisable.

When you work in the same city you live in, there are bound to be moments when your two worlds collide. Dean’s adopted a plan of action for these moments. When he bumps into his clients on the street, dressed in their normal-day clothes and going about their normal-day lives, he shuts down and leaves everything up to them. He makes no outward signs of acknowledgement; if they choose to ignore him then he just passes on by like a figment of their imagination, their dirty little secret. If they acknowledge him, then he has no choice but to smile back and say hello. He keeps it sweet, keeps it brief. If they try to offer him a drink he politely declines. Dean makes it a rule never to socialise with his clients, not when they’re not paying him.

Due to the fact that the Pogue Mahone is a scant few streets away from Richard’s apartment, it shouldn’t be a surprise when Dean catches sight of the other man walking through the doors. He glances up for the briefest of moments, registering him, and then he looks down again, returning to his conversation with Aidan and not missing a beat.

They’re sat in the comfortable chairs by the window again. Aidan’s on break and, Dean’s not one hundred percent, but he’s pretty sure that Aidan is flirting outrageously with him and Dean’s absolutely certain that he is flirting right back.

“Dean,” comes Richard’s deep baritone and both Aidan and Dean turn. Richard’s standing close to the door looking like he’s not sure whether to stay or run. “Hello.”

Richard looks so uncomfortable that Dean’s heart goes out to him. _Honey no,_ he thinks to himself, _you don’t have to, you can pretend I don’t exist I don’t mind._

Out loud he smiles and says, “Richard, it’s good to see you!”

“I’ll be right with you to take your order in a second, man,” Aidan tells Richard with a friendly smile and Dean realises that Aidan recognises Richard. The other man must be somewhat of a regular here. Richard nods, hovers for a moment, nods again at Dean and then heads for the counter. Aidan downs the last of his espresso and winks at Dean.

“Looks like my time’s up,” he says. “I’ll have to be leaving you, sweetness.”

“That’s fine,” Dean says, “I need to get going anyway.” But before he can stand, Aidan’s hand is on his arm, holding him still.

“Listen, before you run off, what do you say to grabbing a drink some time? When I’m not working that is and maybe something a little harder than caffeine.”

Dean feels a thrill of excitement that he swallows down with the guise of playing it cool.

“Oh, yeah sure,” he says. “That’d be great.”

Aidan’s smiling at him and Dean has the odd compulsion to kiss those perfect lips. Not before the first date, he chastises himself.

“I know the rules say we should wait a few days to play it cool and all, but fact is I’ve got a monster run of shifts starting the day after tomorrow so how about tonight?” Aidan narrows his eyes shrewdly. “Or is that too soon?”

Dean racks his brain, he has a booking with a client the following evening, ‘the great and powerful’, but tonight, as far as he can remember, he’s completely free. “Tonight is fine. When and where?”

“Well considering you spend all your money coming here all the time, how about we do it closer to your turf? What haunts are good round yours?”

Dean has no idea; he’s not much of a ‘haunts’ kind of guy if he’s honest, not in his downtime. He’ll have to ask Adam. “How about you give me your number and I’ll let you know. Is seven good for you?”

“Seven is perfect,” Aidan smiles, it’s an infectious smile, one Dean can’t help returning.

 

* * *

 

“What did I tell you? Of course you would get his number, _of course!”_ Adam’s shouting but Dean can tell from the way he’s bouncing on his feet and clapping his hands that he’s actually delighted for Dean.

Dean tries not to roll his eyes too much and pulls a third shirt from his closet, holding it up to his chest and frowning into the mirror sceptically.

“Not that one,” Adam says. “Go for the dusty teal.”

“You always say the teal.”

“Because none of your other shirts scream ‘rip me off and throw me on the floor’ like that one does.”

“Adam,” Dean levels his friend with an even gaze. “Do _you_ want to rip my shirt off and throw me on the floor?”

“Fuck off,” Adam snorts delicately. He’s rooting through Dean’s coats until he finds the one he’s searching for. “Christ Dean, why do you have so much corduroy? It’s like you robbed an upholsterer or something.”

“I look good in corduroy,” Dean scowls.

“Dean, honey, _no one_ looks good in corduroy. Not since the seventies.”

Dean waves Adam off and pulls the teal shirt up and over his head. He plucks at it until it hangs just right and examines himself in the mirror, turning just so to try and see the back view.

Adam crows triumphantly when he _finally_ finds the jacket in question, a faded black leather number and he thrusts it out for Dean to take.

“You look ravishing,” Adam beams as Dean runs hands through his hair, toying with strands until he’s happy with how it sits. “You’re getting laid tonight for sure.”

“Maybe I don’t want to get laid.”

“Aaah.” Adam nods sagely. “Taking it slow, could this actually be love?”

“Shut up.” Dean snatches a balled up pair of socks and throws them at Adam. He feels like a giddy teenager nervous and soaking themselves in aftershave before their first kiss. It’s an unfamiliar, not altogether unpleasant, feeling for him; he didn’t think he was capable _of_ feeling this way.

Once Dean’s adequately spritzed up and ‘ready to kill’ (Adam’s words) Adam kisses him on the cheek and sees him off looking not entirely, but a little like a parent waving their child off at the school gates.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of first dates and lackluster blowjobs.

Dean follows Adam’s directions to Rumours bar without too much difficulty. He’s never been before but Adam swears blind it’s perfect, citing it plays good music, houses a good crowd, and has the cutest décor in the toilets; also the cocktails are to die for.

Aidan’s already there waiting for him dressed in an outfit not unlike those he wears most days to work. Only he has switched the flannel for leather, darker and more beaten up than Dean’s. He’s wearing a pair of fingerless gloves, it’s that perfect touch of rebellion that makes Dean feel like he’s going on a date with Judd Nelson circa The Breakfast Club. It doesn’t hurt that Dean had a raging crush on Nelson’s character all the way through high school.

They order their drinks, two whiskey ginger and vodka tonics, Dean’s choice with Aidan being too lazy to think for himself, and then retreat to a back booth.

Dean realises he can’t remember the last time he actually went on a date. He thinks maybe it was with that one guy with the nice shoes a year ago, what was his name? Hal? Cal? Whatever. He’d insisted on taking Dean out on a dinner cruise. It was supposed to be cute and spontaneous, with four courses and music and dancing. The reality however was a lot less cute, the date soured after the second course when they ran out of small talk and realised neither of them had anything in common (in fact found each other to be quite tedious) and Dean spent the rest of the evening staring at the guy’s expensive Italian leather shoes until he could make his escape. All in all it was a fairly disastrous evening.

Dean suddenly wishes he hadn’t recalled that date, what if tonight goes just as badly? What if he and Aidan discover that their relationship could go no further than coffee shop banter and flirtation?

Aidan’s smiling at him like he’s sitting on a secret, “You’re nervous,” Aidan says, it’s not a question.

Dean laughs, he’s toying with the stirrer in his drink, stabbing at the ice cubes and watching them float back up to the top. “I’m not nervous,” he says.

“You are. It’s cute.”

“I don’t really do this often.”

“What? Dating?”

“Yes.”

“Well then you’re in luck.” Aidan sits back in the booth; he drapes his arms along the seatback and smiles wide and easy. “I go on them all the time; I’m a bit of an expert.”

“Really.” Dean raises a brow, smirking.

“ _All_ the time.This is the third one tonight.” He lasts an impressive ten seconds before he folds and laughs. “So, Dean, you know where I work, what is it you do?”

“Online business, databasing and archiving.” Dean takes an easy sip of his drink and shakes his head. He’s well versed in answering this question. “It’s boring really; I won’t go into the details.”

“That must be where you know Richard from.”

“Sorry?”

“He’s one of those dot com millionaires isn’t he? I figured that was how the two of you knew each other…”

“Oh.” Dean swallows. “Right, yes. He’s a… he’s a client of mine.”

Aidan’s shaking his head and smiling a warm, teasing smile. “Man you internet geek types. I’ll tell you what. I took the wrong degree in uni. But I guess we can’t _all_ be making a fortune sitting in our living rooms in our pyjamas.”

Keen to change the subject, Dean asks, “What was your degree in?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Cultural anthropology with a minor in classics.”

“Wow.” Dean nods. “That’s.” He frowns. “What can you do with that?” It sounds blunt and rude and he regrets asking but Aidan takes it in good humour and barks out a laugh.

“Exactly the reason I’m working in a coffee shop with an angry N’Irishman, mate. So I guess you did something like business studies am I right?”

“Actually, no. I never went to university.”

“Aah fair enough, fair enough.” Aidan bobs his head. “It’s not really necessary these days is it? You’re proof of that with your fancy internet business.”

Dean feels intensely uncomfortable with the conversation and his resulting lies. He gives a weak nod, nursing his drink. Aidan’s almost finished his and will be looking for a refill soon. He speeds up his drinking, trying to match the pace of the other man.

“What brought you over here, anyway? It’s a little far from New Zealand, isn’t it?”

“An ex, actually. He was from Wales and working in Auckland for a year when we met. I had dual citizenship so I guess I decided I may as well come back with him when his visa ran out. The relationship ended soon after, I guess it couldn’t survive such a huge romantic statement.” Dean shrugs, feigning dramatic irony to hide just how uncomfortable he is by the memory. He cringes every time he remembers how love-struck and naïve he had been. It never would have worked out with Luke; he can see that clearly now in hindsight. “But instead of slinking home with my tail between my legs I just decided to stick around in England for a while. So far so good.”

Aidan’s watching Dean as he talks; he’s finished his drink and is hooking ice cubes from his glass and chewing on them. Dean can’t help but notice how his fingertips are wet and blushing pink from the ice.

“Well,” Aidan says finally, crunching on his last ice cube. “I’m sorry you went through that, must’ve been a lot of upheaval but can’t say I’m too sorry if it meant you coming into my work and me meeting you.”

“No,” Dean smiles. “I can’t say I’m too sorry about it either.”

Dean realises somewhere around his third glass that it’s true what they say; an Irishman can drink anyone under the table. That or he’s just a significant lightweight which is entirely possible. He’s beginning to feel giddy and lightheaded and can feel a flush spreading from his neck to his cheeks but Aidan still looks as sober as a judge.

But it doesn’t matter because Dean’s having fun, he finds that he’s saying things just so that he can see Aidan smile and hear him laugh. It’s a wonderful laugh, free and happy. You don’t realise how restricted people can be until you see someone genuinely let go, actually throw their heads back and let it bubble out of them. It’s addictive and fills Dean with warmth and he’s beginning to worry that he could become a slave to that laugh very quickly.

At some point, Aidan sets his empty glass down and announces they should go for a walk. Dean’s just this side of drunk so he’s grateful for the chance to clear his head before he says or does anything too stupid.

There’s a chill in the air that hints at the approach of fall, the sky is clear and the moon is big and bright. It would be romantic if it weren’t for the group of students dressed as safari animals gathered nearby. They’re hunched over a lad in a lion onesie, hooting and laughing as he purges his day’s alcohol intake into the gutter.

_Kids._ Neither says it, but they’re both thinking it.

They take an indirect and winding route towards the park close to Dean’s apartment. Neither is willing to call it a night just yet. They walk side by side in companionable silence across a deserted football field, their shoulders brushing with every third or fourth step.  Beyond the field is a small playground with swings and a roundabout.

When they’re close enough, Aidan breaks into a jog and jumps onto one of the swings, he doesn’t seem to have any concerns about how much of a big kid he looks. Standing with his feet braced on the wooden seat and his head practically skimming the top bar, he swings back and forth, using his weight and bulk as momentum.

Dean drops down onto the roundabout, pushing with his feet so he swings backwards in a lazy circle, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“You’re pretty spontaneous, aren’t you,” Dean comments, craning his head to look at Aidan until he’s swinging round to face him again. Aidan shrugs and grins and throws his body forward to get just that little bit higher.

“Kids have all the fun on these things. Night’s the only time we get the chance to claim them back.” Aidan’s silent for a moment, concentrating. The swing comes almost perpendicular to the bar at the pinnacle of its arc. “Have you had a good night?” he says finally and he’s a little winded.

“Sure,” Dean says. “Have you?”

“Of course.” Aidan leaps off the swing, the metal chain clatters and shakes at the loss and he lands in a graceless crouch, then he staggers onto the roundabout, sliding into the section just next to Dean’s. He kicks off with one foot, pushing until they’re spinning faster and faster and Dean has to hold on tight to stop himself from sliding off. “Will you be wanting to do it again?”

“Yes,” Dean says finally.

“Good.” Aidan smiles, bright and wide and visible in the dark, he’s leaning in close and it feels like they might kiss. But Dean’s not ready to. Not just yet. He turns his head to look out at the world moving by. After a moment his mind shifts and it feels like they are the ones sitting still and it is the world spinning around them.

Aidan walks with Dean to the front steps of his apartment block but he doesn't go in with him. They linger for a moment in that pleasantly awkward way with neither quite sure how to say goodnight before Aidan stoops in and kisses Dean once, briefly, on the lips, not enough to be called a real kiss but enough to show he's interested in it becoming more soon. "I'll call you," Aidan says, "See you before that at work, most likely," he adds with a wink.

Dean waits until Aidan has disappeared round the corner before he lets himself in. Dean checks Adam's flat as he passes but the lights are out, Adam apparently already having gone to bed. However when Dean checks his phone he's not surprised to find two texts from his friend. The first Adam must have sent not long after Dean first met Aidan in the pub. _'what's he like? is he funny? call me if u need an out'._ The second had been sent much later, not long ago at all. ' _going well then? ;) tell me everything tomorrow.'_

When he goes to bed that night he feels dizzy and a little silly because of it but too happy to care.

* * *

_ One week later. _

Dean’s on his knees in Richard’s bathroom with Richard’s cock in his mouth and Richard’s hands fisted in his hair.

It’s a nice bathroom. Large with black tiles and a feature bath roughly the size of Dean’s bed.

“You have _really_ nice things.” Dean had told him when he’d first seen it. Richard had only hummed and shrugged and changed the conversation in that awkward British way of his.

Richard keeps going half hard and it’s beginning to become a problem for Dean. He takes pride in his blowjob technique and takes it as a personal offence when anyone’s not one hundred percent in the moment with him.

He looks up and Richard’s eyes are vague and distant with a thousand yard stare, wherever he is it isn’t here.

“Right,” Dean lets go of Richard’s cock and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He sits back on his heels and frowns up at Richard. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Richard’s eyes blink back into the here and now. “Hmm?”

“You’re not into this at all. We could do something else if you like? Maybe take a bath together?” He’s been eyeing that bath since they came in here. It really is massive and there’s water jets and bubble settings and he’s pretty sure the base is heated.

“No, no, I’m into it.” Richard strokes his fingers through Dean’s hair, his thumb brushes over his hairline almost tenderly.

“I can tell when someone’s not with me and to be honest it’s beginning to piss me off.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. Just tell me what else you’d like to do. Or I could come up with some ideas.” Dean purrs as he rises to his feet. He presses soft kisses to Richard’s jawline.

“Are you close to Aidan?”

Dean takes a step back. That was unexpected.

“Um, we’re friends. I guess.” He’s tentative with his reply and he watches Richard carefully, wondering if he will see jealousy in his expression. Richard just looks slightly miserable. He looks like a scolded pup sitting next to a broken vase. He looks guilty.

“It was strange seeing you like that. You looked normal.”

Dean laughs, so that’s what this is. Client guilt, he’s had it one or two times before. The client sees him in the light of day or is somehow reminded that he’s a real person with a real life and real problems and things change for them. They start questioning what they’re doing; next thing is they’re having an out and out moral dilemma.

“I do _do_ normal things, Richard,” Dean says, keeping his voice light and friendly. “What I do out there doesn’t have any effect on what goes on in here.”

Richard doesn’t seem convinced, he hasn’t lost that unpleasant pinch of guilt that twists his mouth downwards and he’s leaning back against the bathroom sink, naked and forlorn.

“No one’s forcing me to be here,” Dean says quietly. He steps closer and rests his hand on Richard’s shoulder, thumb resting over the juncture of his collarbone. “We have a mutual agreement. You pay me, I’m more than happy to oblige, no one’s taking advantage of anyone. But if it weirds you out too much, I could give you someone else’s number, someone good who you’d like.”

“No.” Richard places a hand around Dean’s hip, draws him in. “I think it just knocked me for a loop seeing you like that.”

“It does that sometimes.”

“I still want to see you.” Richard ducks his head, presses a light kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. “Is that ok?”

“Of course,” Dean smiles. “I’m glad.”

That night he actually gets the chance to try out Richard’s bath and it’s as glorious as he’d imagined.

Richard hadn’t paid for the whole night but he insists on slipping Dean a little extra for the taxi fare home citing it’s too dangerous to walk alone so late. Dean makes a few half-hearted noises about not needing charity but accepts the cash easily enough.

He gets home some time between two and two fifteen to find an envelope posted under his door. It’s from Adam, inside are two tickets to the playhouse for Orlando’s latest show. There’s a note folded around the tickets written in all caps in thick black letters

**TOMORROW NIGHT INVITE AIDAN!!!!**

Dean rolls his eyes and drops the tickets on his kitchen counter. He hits the switch on the kettle, there’s still water left in it from that morning, and leans pensively against the counter as he waits for it to boil. He thinks about Aidan and what Richard had said to him that night. He realises somewhat reluctantly that sooner or later he’s going to have to tell Aidan. It’s one of his rules. He doesn’t have to tell everyone he meets, but if it looks like they’re going to be sticking around, it’s confession time. Hiding it isn’t fair on them, or him for that matter.

Things feel like they could get serious with Aidan if he lets them. He needs to tell him before he falls too far, before Aidan has a chance to fall. Only an asshole would wait until it’s too late.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow Dean will tell him, after the theatre.

The kettle switches over and Dean pours himself a mug of chamomile tea. Blowing into the mug, he moves through into his bedroom and tries not to think too much about how tomorrow might possibly end up being the last time he sees Aidan.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter lengths are extremely irregular, apologies for that. I hope people are enjoying this, I have the majority of it planned out and there's quite a journey yet. I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Orlando's a great guy, but he's also kind of an ass.

“You don’t have to do this,” Dean says for what has to be the twentieth time. “Seriously, we could just blow it off. I won’t mind.”

“Dean…” Aidan rolls his eyes. Dean’s acting like a broken record with his fretting, he knows it.  Aidan strikes him as a fairly reasonable, easy going person but even he’s reaching his limit. “I want to go. We’re going. It’ll be fun meeting your friends.”

Dean still resists the urge to wring his hands anxiously.

Adam’s already at the playhouse waiting for them, he’d texted Dean with a snapshot of him next to three drinks and the message ‘ _hurry up before I drink them all!_ ’

Dean knows that Adam would murder him if they didn’t show up; Dean’s his golden ticket to securing drinks with Orlando afterwards. Regardless, Dean still frets about every little thing that could go wrong. It’s technically only their second date. Granted he may have shared more than a few longing glances and cozy chats with Aidan in the Pogue Mahone, (much to Jimmy’s very vocal annoyance ‘ _stop making goo goo eyes at the customers before I throw a bucket of water on you!_ ’ he’d been heard to exclaim on more than one occasion) but surely it was still a little early to be introducing each other to friends just yet. What if they jinx it? What if Adam says something? Of course Adam will say something. Adam says everything.

If he’s honest with himself, the main reason Dean’s so nervous is because ever since he texted Aidan about the play and received a text of confirmation that morning, he’d developed a strong case of cold feet about his impending confession. If it turns out badly, he’d rather not have to deal with the consequences, he’d much rather keep seeing Aidan. He’s not certain he could cope with seeing any kind of disgust or judgement on Aidan’s face. Or worse, betrayal.

“So what is this play about, anyway?” Aidan asks while looking askance at Dean.

“Um, it’s a Willy Russell one. I think it’s set in a nightclub in Liverpool, like in the bathrooms or something.”

“So we’re going to watch people pretend to be drunk on a night out?”

“Yeah… it’s observational. I think.” He’s sure he’d heard Adam parroting that word to him in one of his many rants about how wonderful and underappreciated Orlando is.

“Could be fun.” Aidan bobs his head. They’re walking close together, not quite as close as they had been that night at the park, but close enough that if anyone should care to notice, it would be somewhat clear that they were more than just friends, whatever that ‘more’ happened to be. Dean finds that he quite likes it.

They reach the playhouse fifteen minutes before curtain call and find Adam hovering in the lobby bar. He waves animatedly when he spots Dean, beckoning for them to come over and looking slightly manic.

Dean manoeuvres his way around the backs of a group of young men who are dressed painfully fashionably and perfecting the image of looking like they went to a lot of trouble to not look like they went to a lot of trouble. He feels Aidan’s fingers hook around the sleeve of his coat so as not to lose him in the crowd and Dean smiles secretly down at it.

“Finally!” Adam says once they’re in earshot. “You know it’s not allocated seats right? I told you to get here early so we’d get a good spot.”

“It’ll be fine.” Dean waves Adam away and picks up the two closest drinks, handing one to Aidan. Adam’s already finished his first and is partway through another and he’s visibly nervous which strikes Dean as cute. Adam always has had a hard time hiding his emotions. “Orlando knows we’re here, I texted him about drinks after.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Adam says even as he beams and flushes. “Did he say yes?”

“Of course.”

Adam’s attention drifts to Aidan who’s standing somewhat awkwardly beside Dean and glancing about the room with his dark, severe brows.

“Hello!” Adam says. “You must be Aidan.”

Aidan’s attention snaps back to them, his face brightens and it amazes Dean how he can do that, go from dark and brooding to overgrown puppy in a matter of seconds. Aidan thrusts out a hand which Adam takes and doesn’t quite shake, more squeezes.

“Yeah, man. You’re Adam right? It’s good to meet you.”

“And you. You’re bloody gorgeous.” Dean wishes Adam wasn’t quite so obvious with the way he elbows Dean and winks salaciously at him, fairly screaming a nonverbal ‘well done!’ “I don’t know how much you know about me but I know all about you. You’re all Dean talks about, he’s so smitten.”

“It’s not.” Dean glances at Aidan, blushing. “You’re not. I mean I talk about you. But not all the time. He’s trying to embarrass me.”

“Gotcha’.” Aidan grins. When Adam is distracted by his drink, Aidan leans in close and murmurs into Dean’s ear, “You’re cute when you blush,” and his voice is a deep rumble and it’s so close and Dean can _feel_ the Irish lilt on his skin and he can’t help but blush a deeper shade of red.

The buzzer sounds for curtain call and the three of them drift through into the theatre. They manage to find seats together that are an acceptable enough distance from the stage to satisfy Adam (not too close that it’s obvious but not the cheap seats either) and they settle down with Dean in the middle, Aidan to his left and Adam to his right. The leg room is fine for Adam and Dean since neither of them have much in the way of height, but it’s a little more problematic for Aidan. With his long, somewhat gangly limbs, he has to shift and then shift again until he finds a position where his knees aren’t pressed uncomfortably against the seat in front of him. In the end he settles with his legs spread and twisted slightly to the right so his thigh is pressed almost flush against Dean’s.

“Sorry,” Aidan grimaces. “Kind of taking over your side.”

“It’s fine,” Dean says. He refrains from saying he prefers it like that.

Soon after, the lights dim and the curtains are drawn and the murmuring from the audience quietens until they are silent. The play begins.

It’s good. Not fantastic, but it’s enjoyable. Orlando is quite noticeably the strongest of the cast. He delivers his lines in an almost perfect Scouse accent, and times his jokes and delivery well. He’s captivating and it’s not hard to understand why Adam is so enamoured with him.

Despite that, however, Dean can’t help but feel more captivated by the man sitting beside him. He can’t help but glance sideways, noticing the way that Aidan has a hard time sitting still in any one position, the way he squints his dark eyes ever so slightly when he’s concentrating, the way that when he laughs quietly, it blooms from his chest and into his throat like a swell of warmth. Dean realises he’s beginning to look a little creepy and so by the second act, he makes a point of concentrating on the play and the actors, specifically Orlando since he’s fairly certain Adam will be grilling him later on just about every one of Orlando’s little nuances.

When the play finishes and the lights come on, the three of them gather in a sheltered corner of the front lobby, waiting for Orlando to join them.

Eventually, when the crowd has filtered down to a trickle, Orlando shows his face, looking suave and confident as ever. His outfit is accented with a slouch hat and a neck scarf which he somehow manages to pull off without looking like a complete wanker.                

Adam, despite the fact that only moments ago he’d been close to having palpitations, remains reasonably level headed and greets Orlando with a coolness that impresses Dean, especially when Orlando greets Adam by name and kisses the air on either side of his cheeks.

“It’s been a while!” Orlando says with his perfect white smile as he pulls Dean into a warm hug. He holds Dean back at arm’s length, both hands clasped on Dean’s biceps and looks at him from head to toe. “You look good, Deano, you’ll have to tell me your secret.” And then Orlando’s looking at Aidan and his smile turns curious. “Hi,” he says.

“I’m Aidan, Dean’s… uh. Friend.”

“Aah.” Orlando casts Dean a knowing smile. “It’s nice to meet you. So where are we headed? I’ve got a night off tomorrow and I plan on getting pissed.”

 

* * *

 

They’re in Heebies, a wine bar in the cellar of a building that used to be a red brick factory once upon a time. It’s dark with low ceilings and feels forgotten and cramped, but that’s kind of the look they were going for.

Dean’s sitting in a shady alcove with Orlando while Adam and Aidan are at the bar. Orlando had shepherded him here a few minutes ago, seemingly intent on having a quiet word with him. Adam and Aidan seem to be getting along like a house on fire so Dean doesn’t mind too much.

“So,” Orlando says as he sips on his vodka and coke, his mouth pursed around the straw. The drinks are served in old jam jars like they’d tumbled straight from an idealistic sepia photograph of the Old South. “How’s everything going, Dean?”

Dean gets the impression that Orlando isn’t just asking in general.

“Good.” He sips on his drink. “Great! How about you?”

 “I haven’t heard from you in a while. How’s work?”

Dean rolls his eyes. Ever since Orlando made his break from the business he’s gotten it into his head that everyone else should be doing likewise. Dean knows he can’t keep doing it forever and he’ll have to find an out sometime, but not right now. The money’s good, better than he’d make anywhere else on his experience and education level. And he’s not like Orlando, Orlando is driven by his passion, he has goals and a dream. Dean doesn’t have anything like that. Not yet anyway.

“Work’s perfect. Same as ever.”

Orlando looks across the room to where Adam and Aidan are talking, Aidan’s miming a drumbeat and Adam’s flapping his hands laughing.

“Does Aidan know?”

“Not yet. I was planning on telling him tonight, actually.”

 “Really? How long have you been together?”

“We’re not. Not yet really. I wanted to tell him before… before anything concrete happened.”

Orlando narrows his eyes. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

_No._

“It’s only fair giving him the choice,” he says.

“I suppose.” Orlando nods his head and breathes in deeply then exhales very slowly as he swirls his jam jar.

“Didn’t you ever tell anyone you were with?”

“I never really had partners back then. It felt too weird.”

Dean’s not certain if it’s intentional, but he feels judgement in Orlando’s words and his defences rise as he sits a little straighter. The room feels damp with musty air; he’s never been much of a fan of this bar.

“And if you had?” he asks somewhat haughtily. Orlando shrugs.

“I’m not sure really. You could just get out of course. I know you don’t believe me but it’s not the only thing you’re good at.”

“I don’t think it’s the only thing I’m good at.” Dean definitely feels defensive now. He likes Orlando, owes Orlando a lot, but right now he kind of hates him a little. “It’s the only thing I want to do.”

“Is it really, Dean?” Orlando asks and he’s looking at Dean so sagely, so god damn sympathetically like some self-appointed guru of condescension that Dean doesn’t even care if the look he’s shooting the other man is filled with daggers.

 Before he can fire a response, however, Aidan and Adam have returned with four jam jars of alcohol clutched between them.

“Everything ok?” Aidan asks, looking between the two with concern.

“Fine.” Orlando smiles. Dean mutters something of vague agreement and squeezes against the wall, making space for Aidan and Adam to slip in between him and Orlando. He avoids the concerned glance of apology that Orlando shoots him.

“You ok?” Aidan asks again, only his voice is softer as he speaks privately to Dean. It’s sweet how genuinely concerned he sounds. Dean gives him a smile that’s only half forced, he finds it very difficult trying to sulk when he’s around Aidan.

“Do you want to take off after these? Find someplace else?”

“Definitely,” Aidan says eagerly. “It’s insane how expensive these drinks are.” Aidan glances around somewhat conspiratorially. “Though I’m planning on stealing one of these glasses, how great are they?”

“You know it’s just a jar? You could make it yourself at home by finishing your jam.”

“Not the same,” Aidan waves him off, wrinkling his nose. “Will your friends mind us ditching them?”

Dean glances across Aidan to where Orlando and Adam are deep in conversation. Adam looks thrilled and Orlando looks extremely smug, though that could just be because of Dean’s uncharitable perception of the guy right now. “I think we’ll be fine,” he says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got about halfway through this chappy when I though 'oh shit how do you even Orlando???'. idk hopefully I did a good enough job, I mean it's an au anyway so that gives leeway for characterisation right?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's been fighting for your honour but you wouldn't understand.

 

“Your friends seem nice.” They’re walking along the main stretch of the city centre. There is a constant buzzing of activity around them, groups of people passing them by in varying states of inebriation and the odd police officer in their florescent yellow jackets and capped hats. Aidan’s balancing on the cobbles that run down the side of the high street. Dean’s walking beside him on the paving stones. “Adam’s brilliant.”

“He is,” Dean agrees, feeling a swell of pride for his friend. He’s glad that Aidan and Adam get along. It’s not that he couldn’t date anyone if they didn’t pass the Adam code, but it would certainly make it very difficult to. Adam’s like Dean’s dating canary, if Adam finds fault in them then there must be something wrong.

“Orlando’s great too.”

Dean hums agreement, feeling less keen, but rather uncharitable because of it. Orlando _is_ a great guy. All Orlando wants is for everyone to be happy, peace is his way of life, which is very zen and wonderful, Dean just wishes he wasn’t so arrogant with how he goes about it.

“What are your friends like?” Dean asks.

“Well you’ve met Jimmy who believe it or not _is_ actually a mate. Then there’s Steve and Jed, erm, and Russell, though he’s a jerk.” Aidan says this with such fond familiarity that Dean knows that of all of them, it’s Russell’s approval that will be the most important. “I’ve known Russell for years, since we were kids. He’s actually pretty desperate to meet you.”

“Is he now?” Dean looks at Aidan with a smile. “You’ve talked about me then?”

Aidan waves a nonchalant hand and wrinkles his nose. “Only in passing, you know.” He flashes Dean a quick grin. “So where do you want to head?”

Dean’s been thinking about this. It’s all relevant to his impending confession, which _is_ going to happen tonight no matter what Orlando may or may not say. Quick like a band-aid.

It would need to be somewhere quiet, there would be no point trying to shout over crowds and deafening music so any of the more trendy places were out. But then again, Dean doesn’t much fancy the idea of sitting in an old man’s boozer to do the deed. _What if Aidan starts shouting?_ Ideally he’d like to just not go anywhere at all, but they can’t very well wonder around the city centre all night, it’s starting to get chilly.

“There’s a good place I know of,” Aidan volunteers. “But it’s on the other side of the city.”

“Doesn’t matter, I don’t mind walking.” Maybe it’ll give him the chance to work up enough courage, maybe he could do it on the way, just get it done and dusted and put behind them.

They walk together side by side with Aidan directing them. He’s still balancing on the cobbles with his arms out by his sides. When they come to a bench he leaps onto it and walks along the seat then back down onto the cobbles. The man is actually just a gigantic puppy dog, maybe one of those floppy gangly ones like an Irish Setter.

“Did you ever really picture yourself settling in this city?” Aidan asks.

“Not really.” But then again, Dean never really pictured himself doing anything, it all just kind of happened. “Did you?”

“Nah man. I mean I pictured myself leaving Dublin but I thought I’d get myself a little further afield than England. Maybe New Zealand.” He waggles his eyebrows at Dean. “Do you ever think you’ll go back there?”

Dean shrugs. ”Maybe one day,” he sniffs. “It’s where my family is I guess.” And not a lot else. He misses it, but he never really saw much of a future there. He might not see one here but there was even less of one back there.

“You’d get better weather for one thing.”

“That’s true,” Dean laughs. “If you don’t mind the bushfires.”

“Ah yeah. I guess that’s one plus for England then, too wet for bushfires.”

They come to a crossing in the road but it’s quiet enough that they can jog straight over without needing to wait. Back on the pavement Aidan switches sides with Dean so he’s walking the narrow tightrope that is the curb. Every now and then Dean holds out a hand to help steady him.

“Hey listen, you know about my job.”

“Hmm?” Aidan turns to look at Dean.

“It’s not exactly like I told you.”

“Oh right.” Aidan’s grinning. “You’re going to tell me you’re in the secret service now aren’t you like some Kiwi double agent.”

“Not exactly.” And Dean means to tell Aidan, he really does, it was on the tip of his tongue and he’s ready to blurt it all out, when Aidan slips and his ankle goes from under him and he’s sprawling onto the road with a yelp and a smash of glass.

“Shit,” Dean says. “Are you ok?”

Aidan blinks up at him with surprised eyes. The jam jar he’d smuggled out and tucked into his jacket lies in splintered shards around him.

“Oh no,” Aidan wails. “My glass!”

“Jar,” Dean corrects.

“Whatever. Shit, I’m bleeding.” One of the shards had embedded itself a good few inches into the palm of Aidan’s right hand. Dean hadn’t noticed it before but now he does and he goes a little pale. The shard is thick and long and blood is already pooling around the edges. Aidan plucks at it.

“Don’t--!” Dean starts but is too late. The glass is out and blood starts spilling down Aidan’s palm and dripping onto the tarmac.

“Oops.” Aidan blinks down at it, then up at Dean, he looks like he’s not certain whether to laugh or groan and in the end both come out in a kind of strangled snort.

Dean’s not sure what to do; it looks like a lot of blood. He starts shrugging off his jacket with the intention of using his shirt but Aidan stops him with a scowl.

“Calm down, white knight,” Aidan teases. “I’ve got a handkerchief.” And so he does, Aidan whips out a patterned rag from his back pocket and presses it to the wound. Dean takes it out of Aidan’s hands, staring at it dubiously.

“Is this sanitary?” he asks.

“Yeah it’s clean, I never use it.”

“Then why have it?”

“Luck? Fashion? I don’t know are you going to help or just leave me to bleed out here?”

Dean folds the handkerchief into what seems an acceptable thickness and then winds it twice around Aidan’s palm. “Make a fist,” he orders because he’s sure he remembers them saying that once in school. Aidan does so and Dean winds the handkerchief once over Aidan’s knuckles then ties a knot. “How’s that feel?”

“Perfect. My hero.”

“We need to go to the hospital, it looked like you need stitches.”

Aidan sighs. “Couldn’t we just go to the pub and then go to the hospital after? It’s a _really_ nice pub.”

Dean frowns with intense disapproval.

“Ok, fine, we’ll get a cab, no point calling an ambulance or anything crazy like that.”

Dean pulls out his phone and punches in a local cabby’s number then they sit side by side on the curb, waiting for it to arrive. Aidan toes forlornly at the shattered remains of his jar.

“I kind of ruined the date a little, didn’t I?”

Dean reaches over and squeezes Aidan’s shoulder, then he pulls him into a one armed hug.

“Nah,” he says. Aidan just ruined the confession, which may not exactly be a bad thing.

When the taxi arrives, the cabby stares at them suspiciously through his rear view mirror.

“You’d better not bleed all over my backseat,” he warns Aidan, nodding towards the bloodied bandage.

“Such concern for your fellow human being,” Aidan snorts.

“I mean it mate, I’ve just had the upholstery shampooed.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to bleed all over myself. I won’t ruin your precious seats.” Aidan rolls his eyes and lets his head fall back against the headrest. The cabby looks at Dean who grimaces and shrugs.

“Hospital please?” he asks. He cabby glowers, but luckily for them, doesn’t kick them out.

Aidan, for the duration of the journey, seems to have made it his personal mission to keep his bloody hand anywhere but on his lap and Dean can see the angry twitches coming from the cabby as he glances continually at them in the mirror. In the end Dean takes hold of Aidan’s hand and keeps it on his own lap, stroking his fingers over Aidan’s knuckles every time Aidan goes to pull away. Aidan smiles devilishly at him and Dean stares evenly back at him. _Troublesome son of a bitch_ , he thinks fondly.

When they reach the hospital Dean lets Aidan slide out first and then leaves the cabby a generous tip with one final grimace. The back seat is free of blood but he still feels guilty by proxy. With one final glower, the cabby pulls away and Dean and Aidan make their way into the fluorescent lighting of the hospital.

The nurse at the front desk coos in sympathy upon their arrival. “Oh dear, what’s happened to you then?” she says as she looks at Aidan’s bloody wrapped hand.

“I was bottled,” Aidan grins. Dean rolls his eyes.

“He fell on some glass.”

“Oh dear, that’s not very good is it? Just sign yourself in love and we’ll call you through.” The nurse hands them a form pinned to a clipboard with a pen tied to the clip. Dean takes it seeing as Aidan’s out of commission with his wounded hand and they take a seat in the hard plastic chairs of the waiting room.

“From now on if anyone asks I was bottled in a fight defending your honour, right? It sounds so much cooler.”

Dean laughs. “You’re so brave,” he says, mocking a swoon.

The waiting room is relatively empty with only a couple other poor souls dotted around; one man with a bloodied towel pressed to his head by his shell-shocked wife and a man with a loud, rattling cough. There’s a late night game show playing muted on a wall mounted television above them with subtitles.

Dean fills in what he can on his own, which isn’t very much, in fact it’s Aidan’s first and last name, and the rest he reads aloud and then scribbles down Aidan’s answers.

“Oh you’re a Gemini,” he comments when jotting down Aidan’s date of birth.

“Yeah. What are you?”

“Sagittarius.”

“Are they compatible?”

“Sure.” In truth, Dean has no idea. But they’re both human signs aren’t they, well his is a centaur, but it’s part human, so surely they must be compatible yes.

Dean tries not to use the form as a creepy method of obtaining information about Aidan, but then again, it’s a little difficult not to considering he’s the one filling it in. He learns that both Aidan’s parents are still alive and still in Clondalkin, Aidan is an only child, and his blood type is B negative. It’s all fairly useless information all in all, but it’s the kind of things that are nice to know, however Dean provides his own verbal answers to each question to make it feel a little less weird and a little more fair on Aidan.

Dean returns the form and before long, Aidan’s name is called.

“I’ll wait here,” Dean tells him. Aidan smiles broadly and presses a quick kiss to Dean’s lips.

“You’re so sweet,” he all but coos.

“Go,” Dean commands. “You’re bleeding on me.” Aidan wasn’t bleeding on him, but Dean needed him to go before he started to blush.

When Aidan’s gone, Dean settles himself down as comfortably as he can in the waiting room chairs which feel like they’re designed to be anything but comfortable. He tries to watch the game show but he thinks the subtitles are wrong, unless the smiley game show host is really offering the chance of a walrus prize for a leak call in.

In the end, he picks up one of the dated magazines, a National Geographic from Spring two years ago, and flicks through the pages. He finds an article on war photography, which has always kind of been a thing for him and becomes engrossed in the story and accompanying pictures. If only that had been an option for him. The photography part, not the fighting part. In his younger days he supposed he did have something of a dream of wondering the world with nothing but a camera strapped to his back and a tripod under his arm, capturing life and love and loss in all its rawest forms.

Unfortunately that kind of dream is only open to the people who can afford it, specifically not him.

Finally, after some time, Aidan re-emerges with a flourish and a bright white bandage wrapped around his hand. “Eight stitches!” he exclaims, holding out the adequate number of fingers. He seems far too proud of this fact.

“Nice!” Dean stands to greet him. Without really thinking he tucks the rolled magazine into his back pocket under his jacket.

As they walk outside, leaving the fluorescent lighting and the smell of antiseptic behind them in lieu of the faint smell of cigarettes coming from a group of smokers by the entrance, Aidan turns to Dean.

“So what was it you wanted to tell me before?”

“Oh,” Dean looks down at the bandage over Aidan’s hands, at his fingers curling over the gauze. “It’s nothing, never mind.” It feels like the right time for confession has passed tonight, that or he’s just a coward.

They’d come to a stop a little way from the hospital, just a few yards away from the taxi rink and they’re standing facing each other.

“Hey so tonight I was kind of hoping to steal a proper kiss off you. Before I went and messed it all up.”

“You never messed it up,” Dean says lightly, automatically. “I mean it was eventful, you know. Who else can say they spent the night in a hospital because their date was bottled by a curb defending their honour.”

“It was a nasty curb, total bastard.” Aidan laughs. He’s looking at Dean and Dean’s looking back at Aidan.

“It was,” Dean agrees and they draw in closer. It’s gradual and tentative, and Dean can feel the warmth of anticipation before their lips come together and they’re kissing. His eyes drift shut. His mouth is tingling and Aidan’s drawing his good hand up to cup Dean’s head, fingers stroking through his hair.

It doesn’t matter that they’re in public, or that his back is stiff from the hospital chairs, or that there’s still blood drying on the cuff of Aidan’s jacket, because that kiss is perfect for its imperfections. Dean has fallen and there’s no way he’s getting out easy.

 

* * *

 

“Good morning, Deanshine!” Adam’s in a good mood. It’s obvious that last night went well for him when he bursts in through Dean’s front door singing the bastardised lyrics. “Ad-am says hello!”

“You’re mad.” Dean doesn’t look up from where he’s perched on his breakfast counter eating a slice of toast. He’s drumming his bare feet against the cupboard. “Things go well with Orlando?”

“I got his number.” Adam sashays his way over to Dean and grabs Dean’s hands, slice of toast and all, and pulls them up into the air. “And a date!”

“Nice one! When?” Dean pulls his and Adam’s hand down so he can finish his toast.

“Friday.” Adam starfishes their fingers together and spreads their arms wide. “We’re going to an art gallery. God Dean, an art gallery! He’s so cultured and wonderful and have I ever thanked you for introducing us? You’re an Angel.”

Adam’s the only person Dean knows who can be so tirelessly exuberant so early in the morning. He doesn’t mind so much, it brushes off some of his own cobwebs. It’s good to see him so happy.

Adam lets Dean’s hands go and switches the kettle on. He pulls down two mugs from Dean’s mug tree. “Oh how did things go last night with Aidan?” he asks as he gets the milk out the fridge.

“I didn’t tell him.” Dean swallows, brushing crumbs from his mouth.

“Oh?” Adam glances curiously at Dean. “I thought last night was the big reveal?”

“It was supposed to be. I was distracted by a trip to the hospital.”

“The hospital?” Adam frowns. “Is everything ok?”

“Yeah fine,” Dean says breezily. “Aidan just cut his hand. He’s kind of a klutz.”

“A gorgeous klutz!” Adam grins and pours out the milk and drops a tea bag into the first mug. “I see why you’re so obsessed with him, he’s lovely too. Are you still planning on telling him?”

“Yes.” Dean’s stomach tightens a little, with guilt or dread, he’s not entirely certain, possibly both. “Maybe. Do you think I still need to?”

“It’s entirely up to you, darling. You know that.”

Dean remains silent. The kettle turns over and he watches Adam pour the boiled water into the mugs and dunk the teabag into each respective mug, brewing them simultaneously. He’d never been very keen on English tea before he started living here but it’s beginning to grow on him, though nothing will come between him and his mug of chamomile before bed.

“Are you working tonight?” Adam asks. He picks up both mugs and carries them through into the living room. Dean slips down off the counter and follows him through.

“Yeah, I’ve got a booking, an all nighter.”

“Oh,” Adam sounds a little disappointed. “I was hoping we could have a movie night.”

“Another time,” Dean promises. “For sure.” They sink down onto the couch.

“You know about art right?” Adam asks as he tucks his feet under him and wraps his thin fingers around his mug, warming them.

“I guess? A little.”

“Ok good, you need to tell me all the smart things I can say to impress Orlando on Friday.”

“You don’t need to try and impress him, he’s not like that.”

“No, but I want to, so tell!”

Dean sighs and rolls his eyes, but he’s got nothing better to do, so he settles down to give Adam the 101 of all the art terminology he knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Adam mauls is 'Good Morning Starshine' from Hair the musical if you were curious.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night with Ben is basically what Dean imagines a night in a tumble dryer to be like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took ages and it's mostly just set up. Sorry, but it's necessary for later parts. hahaisuck

Dean still remembers the very first time he met Adam.

He’d been just a tiny slip of a thing (though not much has changed) in glasses and orange skinny jeans, the brightness of which was rivalled only by that of his smile.

Dean had been trying to catch up on his sleep after a chain of late nights when he was woken by a knock on his door and so he wasn’t as polite as he could have been when he’d answered.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” Adam asks, like the rumpled t-shirt, jogging bottoms, and pillow indentations on his cheek weren’t clues enough.

“I work nights,” Dean mutters, he rests his head against the door, blinking slowly. It isn’t until after a long uncomfortable moment that he realises this stranger at his door isn’t going to take the hint and leave him in peace. Adam leans against the doorframe, with his white pumps crossed at the ankles and smiling pleasantly at him.

“Can I come in?” Adam asks.

Dean sighs. He steps aside and rolls a hand out in a weary ‘mi casa es su casa’ gesture.

Adam lets himself through into Deans kitchen and Dean follows him. He’s already well trained in British etiquette and knows what is expected of him right now.

“How do you take it?”

“Milk, no sugar, I’m sweet enough.”

Dean levels him with his most sober of looks but Adam smiles on unfazed. There’s still dirty plates from the day before piled up on the counter and Dean shifts them to the sink before pulling two clean mugs down from the mug tree. Adam talks on behind him.

“Don’t worry; this is just a social visit really. You missed the tenants meeting this morning, I was just checking to see you’re ok.”

Dean frowns, there’s a lot of things in that sentence that don’t make sense to him. Why should he be worrying for one, and what other kind of visit could there be? And tenant’s meetings?

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Christ you really are disconnected, aren’t you? I’m Adam. Adam Brown.” Adam thrusts out his hand which Dean shakes tentatively. “I’m your landlord. The one you pay rent to every month.”

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever met his landlord before; Adam has never been more than a name on a cheque he signs every month. He’s fairly certain he would remember meeting someone as colourful as Adam.

“I didn’t realise the meetings were mandatory.” Dean brews the tea and hands Adam his mug and together they walk through into Dean’s living room. Adam takes the couch and Dean locates himself by the small dining table in the corner of the room.

“They’re not really. For you anyway.” Adam rolls his eyes. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to go to them. The lady up in 4B is _such_ a moaner. Don’t tell her I told you that.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Dean has to agree to be honest. He’s come to more than one head on collision with her regarding laundry, recycling, and a number of other petty mundane things that he really couldn’t care less about.

“Well, anyway, you’ll be pleased to know we’re getting a new dryer so we won’t have to wedge the door shut with a brick anymore.”

They sit together in silence with Adam tracing the outline of the pattern on his mug and Dean wondering how long before he can politely suggest that Adam leaves. He really would rather be sleeping right now.

“I may have lied before,” Adam says. “This isn’t a social visit. Not entirely.”

“Oh?”

“There’ve been some complaints about the number of strange guests.”

“Oh.” Dean was wondering how long it was going to take before people started noticing that, it had always only been a matter of time but he’d hoped it would have taken a little longer than this. He’d only just gotten all his boxes unpacked from his last move and this place was beginning to feel a little like home to him.

“4B said she was intimidated by one gentleman in the stairwell last week. He was wanting to know where you lived.”

Dean curses internally. He knows who Adam’s referring to. A rather burly uncouth client named Ronson who hadn’t lasted long.

“I have a lot of friends. You can tell her that particular guest won’t be coming back. She doesn’t have to worry.” Dean smiles pleasantly and sips his tea and waits for the inevitable.

However, the inevitable never comes. Adam nods his head and shrugs. “Right well, I’m glad that’s sorted. I promised I’d have a word with you, and I have now, so if anyone asks, especially the B in 4B, tell them I gave you a warning.”

“Are you?” Dean asks. “Giving me a warning?”

Adam pulls a face, waving his hand like the notion is an offensive little fly that needs batting away. “Christ, it’s silly really, warning you not to have visitors? You are allowed to have people over this isn’t a bloody boarding school. We’ll just set up a log book in the foyer, that should satisfy the rest of them.”

Later, when it becomes the norm for Adam to spend more time at Dean’s than he does at his own, Dean confesses everything to Adam. Adam, much to Dean’s surprise doesn’t react with shock but rather gives an excited shriek and claps his hands and comments that _it’s all very Belle De Jour really isn’t it?_

Adam had told Dean that to be honest, when he thinks about it, he realises that he kind of already knew all along.

 

* * *

 

Dean’s all-nighter is with a client called Ben. Ben is also from New Zealand and has a panoramic poster of the Southern Alps over his bed and surfboards propped up in the hallway. Dean always has mixed feelings when he comes here; he likes Ben well enough, but Ben reminds him of home and it usually leaves him feeling homesick.

Ben is one of Dean’s more unique regulars.

A night with Ben is basically what Dean imagines a night in a tumble dryer to be like. The man is just so damn _active._ He’s the kind of person who loves sex just for the sake of it. He loves experimenting and trying things just to see if they will work.

If he’s read about it or heard about it, chances are he’s going to try it, usually with Dean. Dean doesn’t mind, the guy’s fun; eccentric as hell, but harmless.

Tonight they’re using a sex swing and Dean’s hoisted up so his knees are over his head and he’s swinging back and forth in the harness and it’s weird but kind of nice.

Ben hadn’t finished setting it up by the time Dean arrived and Dean had sighed and rolled his eyes and asked if he looked like a fucking Ikea expert, but he’d helped Ben anyway.

“I probably won’t call you again,” Ben says as he slides his cock in and out of Dean. They’ve barely even started and Ben’s been going through a bit of a tantric kick at the moment so Dean imagines he’ll be dangling here for a while. He looks up at Ben from between his knees.

“Oh? Any reason why?”

Ben smiles and draws his hips back then eases in again slowly, his hands splayed over Dean’s thighs. “I got a girl pregnant.”

“Oh right. Your girlfriend?”

“Not really, but I guess she could be. She’s keeping it; I figured I’d step up to the plate. Being a dad could be fun.”

And that’s just Ben, whatever, it could be fun. He seems happy enough about it.

“Congratulations then, I guess.”

“Thanks mate.” Ben reaches down and fondles Dean’s balls and angles his cock to brush slowly over the little bundle of nerves inside Dean. “I’ll miss this ass though.”

“Well you’re welcome to come back, keep my number on your phone.”

Ben nods and smiles and picks up the pace and the harness creaks and groans and Dean feels strangely weightless.

Dean supposes Ben booked an overnighter as a form of saying goodbye. He’s going to miss Ben in a way, he can’t deny that. Ben’s always been one of his favoured clients and he’s going to miss hearing that accent that stirs up that strange feeling of comfort and faint loneliness all at the same time.

They fuck long into the night and when Ben comes, they lie together in his bed until they’re ready for round two. This time Dean fucks Ben because sometime Ben likes to switch it up and he stares at the New Zealand mountains over the bed as he grips Ben’s hips and thrusts hard into him and he wonders just how different his life would have been if he had stayed there.

The next morning Dean wakes up to find Ben sitting at the foot of the bed wearing board shorts and munching on a slice of marmite toast.

“Another quickie before you leave?” Ben asks with a grin. Dean glances at the clock; he’s still got a half hour so Dean gives Ben a sleepy blowjob through the fly of his board shorts while Ben finishes his toast.

Afterwards, Dean hops in Ben’s shower, locking the door because this time Ben really is out of time and washes himself clean, taking his time in the cocoon of warm water and steam to fully wake up and gather his thoughts.

He thinks about what he needs to do today. He’ll have an empty slot he’ll need to fill up now Ben’s leaving. He’ll have to ask around, maybe get back in touch with his old contacts, see if they know anyone looking. He also needs to text or call Aidan and see how he’s doing, it was only a minor injury but the gesture would still be appreciated he thinks. That and he kind of misses him a lot, even if it has only been a day or so.

When he’s finished in the shower, he swigs a mouthful of Ben’s mouth wash, rinses and spits in the sink, then dresses himself.

He comes out to find Ben shuffling his feet into a pair of jandals and buttoning up a cheesecloth shirt looking every bit the surfer cliché he is.

“There should be good waves out today,” Ben says conversationally as Dean sits at the end of the bed and pulls on his shoes. Dean nods agreement and fetches his coat, then he follows Ben into the hall and waits as Ben hefts a surfboard under his arm. Together they step outside and Dean helps Ben fasten the board to his car rack.

Once finished, Dean turns to Ben.

“Well,” Ben says. “I guess this is it, so long, yeah.”

Dean nods. “Good luck with everything. I think you’ll make a great dad.”

“Probably not but hey, thanks for saying.”

They hug, it’s somewhat uncomfortable but it feels like the kind of thing they should do. Ben gives Dean a lift into the city centre, then he drives away, leaving Dean to watch him go from the sidewalk.

It's early, most people are still on their way to work and there's a steady stream of pedestrians filtering past him on the pavement. Dean merges with the flow, nonchalent in the fact that he has nothing he really needs to do for the rest of the day. He thinks maybe he'll take his time heading back to his apartment, maybe take a detour through the park and enjoy the rare spot of sunshine.

When Dean checks his phone he has two missed calls. One on his work number from Richard and the other on his personal line; it’s from Aidan.

Business before pleasure Dean thinks with a sigh and he hits return call. Richard answers after the fourth ring.

“Richard, hi! I’m just returning your call, my phone was on silent.”

“Dean, hello.” Richard, unsurprisingly, sounds mildly flustered.

“So what is it you need? Is it something about next week?” Richard’s booked in for every second Wednesday and Dean hopes he isn’t cancelling too, two empties on his schedule is the last thing he needs, especially since rent’s due soon and he’s been trying this new thing of not taking advantage of his friendship with Adam by paying late.

“No, actually. You mentioned once that you do public events, by that I mean you will go as a date. Not a date, sorry. A plus one.”

“I did say that, yes,” Dean says, amused. He’s walking down the high street and he stops off in the newsagents to buy himself a pack of gum. On second thought he picks up an energy drink as well “Do you have a public event you want me to accompany you to?”

“Yes. This Saturday, it’s a little short notice I’ll understand if you can’t. I wasn’t going to go myself but…”

“That’s fine, will this be an all-night thing or…?” Dean sets his purchases on the counter and hands the money to the teller.

“All night.” Richard sounds tentative. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all, I’ll schedule you in.” Dean accepts the change, mouths a _thank you_ and steps back out onto the street with his drink and gum clasped in his free hand. “Is there anything else?”

There isn’t so Dean tells Richard he looks forward to it, waits patiently while Richard stumbles over a goodbye and then ends the call.

Next up, Aidan. Dean switches to his personal sim and hits return call.

“Hey!” Aidan answers almost immediately. His voice is partially drowned out by what sounds like a raging mob. “Can’t talk long, morning rush.”

“How’s the hand?”

“Fine, fine, Jimmy’s got me on register duty because I kept dropping the mugs but what can you do? One second mate.” The line muffles as Aidan presumably clasps his hand over the mouthpiece but Dean can make out a barked _what? Yeah yeah I’ll be right with you hold on,_ and then Aidan’s back. “Hey are you free this Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.” Dean can actually hear Aidan’s smile.

“Are you going to tell me why?”

“Magical mystery tour.” Aidan says simply.

“Doing what?”

“That’s kind of the point, it’s a mystery. You in?”

“Sure.” Why not?

 “Great. I’ll text you the details. Look I gotta’ go man, they’re going mad here.”

Aidan terminates the call and Dean stares at the blank screen for a moment before pocketing it. He’s intrigued, he’ll admit that much. As long as they don’t end up in the hospital he’ll consider it an improvement.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ghost references are frowned upon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT FINALLY apologies for how long coming this was. I want to say the next chapter won't take so long, but I can't guarantee it. Writing has been temperamental for me of late. Rest assured however that I'm not going to abandon this fic, even if it comes at a snail pace.
> 
> Also fun fact, the Welsh village in this chapter is based on Portmeirion, it's almost exactly like how I describe it, I just took some poetic licencing for the train station and pottery classes and refrained from naming it because hey, I haven't named the city either, why break tradition? But it's a nifty little village, check it out

 

In the coming week, Dean has no real luck in finding a new booking. It’s the downfall of not being linked to an agency. While the money may be one hundred percent his and he loves the freedom of answering only to himself, it can be somewhat unreliable and at times he can be left swinging.

This is one of those times. None of his old contacts have any names, or any they’re willing to part with that is.

It had been Monday when Ben parted ways with him and now it’s Thursday and Dean’s only just managed to work up the balls to call his old agency. He’d split with them around the time Orlando had, however when Orlando had left the whole game behind, Dean had gone solo.

“Just so we’re clear, I’m not coming back,” Dean says as soon as his old boss answers. “I’m just calling in one of the favours you owe me.”

“Pity.”

Dean’s old boss is called Alison. She’s as ruthless as she is charming and Dean’s grateful he can’t see her face right now. He’s fallen prey to her watery crocodile eyes more than he’d care to admit, it’s difficult to say no to the woman. “So what favour can I do for you, darling?”

“I’m down a client.”

There’s a tut and an elegant hiss of air and Dean imagines Alison leaning back in her leather chair, stretching her legs, long and sylphlike, under her mahogany desk. “Down one client and all the cards start to fall. You’re living on the breadline, darling.”

“It’s only a temporary blip.”

“Until the next one leaves, pet. Tell me, did you ever have a temporary blip when you were with me?”

“Alison, you were my blip.”

Alison laughs, rich and throaty and she coos almost fondly. “The mouth on you, darling, it’s not making me inclined to help you if I’m honest.”

“Will you help me?”

“Mm,” She’s drawing it out. He can hear her tapping her nails against the receiver. “I suppose so, you’re a cutie. I’ll see what I can find for you, all right?”

“Thank you.”

“Remember Dean, the door’s always open if you want to come back.”

“I won’t,” Dean tells her.

 

* * *

 

By the time Friday rolls around, all thoughts of his clientele problems go out the window when Adam calls round with a collection of rainbow coloured skinny jeans and pumps bundled in his arms. He’s in a near tizzy as he spreads them out over Dean’s couch, standing back and squinting at them critically.

“I don’t know,” Adam says as he thrusts his hand under his chin and folds his arms like he’s trying to grasp the meaning behind a very complex piece of modern art. “None of these scream ‘cultured art gallery date’ do they? Maybe I should go for slacks. Should I go for slacks? What are you wearing?”

Dean gestures down to the clothing he’s already got on, jeans and plaid, the weather’s at that awkward in between stage when it’s too hot for jackets but too cold for light tees.

Adam sniffs disapprovingly. “This is the third time I’ve seen you in plaid in the last week. He’s rubbing off on you and not in a good way.”

Dean shrugs, not particularly caring, besides, he’s not even certain there is a dress code for magical mystery tours.

It’s almost eleven AM and Adam’s due to meet Orlando at twelve. Dean’s date with Aidan is T minus three hours and twenty-nine minutes, not that he’s counting.

Dean picks up a pair of red jeans and a pair of pale yellow. Sometimes he thinks that the rainbow begins and ends in Adam’s closet.

“I guess just think about what jeans would look best on Orlando’s bedroom floor.”

“Oh my God, Dean!” Adam snatches the red jeans from his grasp. “You’re not helping,” he says as he stalks into Dean’s bathroom, swinging the door shut behind him.

He returns soon after wearing the jeans and plucking at them critically. “So?” He glances up at Dean imploringly, looking sweet and nervous.

Dean gives them his seal of approval with a thumbs up. “Now can you get the rest of your shit out of my flat?” he suggests.

Adam does so, eventually, after he’s changed jeans at least two more times until finally he’s back in the red pair. By the time he’s finished fussing and pulling faces at himself in Dean’s bedroom mirror, it’s a quarter to twelve and he’s going to be late if Dean doesn’t manually escort him down into the foyer.

“Knock him dead tiger,” Dean says as he blocks Adam from making a break back into his flat. “Call me if you need me.”

“Why are we going to an art gallery?” Adam moans. “Why didn’t I suggest something fun like bowling? Bowling’s fun.”

“You can’t bowl to save your life,” Dean dismisses, “You’ll be fine!”

Finally, _finally_ , Adam leaves and Dean returns to his own apartment to prepare for his own date.

He doesn’t have to do much so he kills time flicking between daytime TV channels, alternating between Midsomer Murders reruns and Jeremy Kyle. At quarter past two, Dean’s phone buzzes with a text, Aidan’s outside.

They greet somewhat hesitantly, neither sure whether to go in for a hug or a kiss, Dean hugs while Aidan kisses and his lips end up scraping over the jut of Dean’s jawline. They both laugh, but they don’t try again.

“So do I get to know where we’re going yet?” Dean asks as they walk side by side, Aidan announcing left or right when necessary. Aidan only smiles and thumbs his nose and is much too smug about it all. Before long, however, it becomes clear to Dean that they are heading for the station.

Aidan makes Dean wait by the gates while he buys the tickets. When he returns he’s tucking them into his wallet. “Platform five,” he says, leading the way.

“Close your eyes,” Aidan says as they near the platform.

“I need to see where I’m going.”

“You’re going to cheat and read the sign.”

“What if I fall down the gap?”

“I’ll guide you, just close your eyes!”

Dean does so, albeit reluctantly and he feels Aidan link their arms together, keeping him on track. There’s a brief kerfuffle on the platform as Aidan tries to guide Dean onto the train and Dean ends up stumbling into a pushchair parked near the doorway.

“This is ridiculous, I’m opening my eyes.” He does so and find that a good portion of the train is staring at him in a very British ‘you’re making a scene and it’s making me uncomfortable’ manner and Dean feels the tips of his ears grow hot with embarrassment. Aidan’s already halfway down the aisle looking for a free table seat. He finds one and drops down triumphantly and Dean follows, taking the window seat opposite Aidan’s.

“Alright, I’ll give you a clue. We’re going to Italy.”

Dean raises his brows. “I’m sorry?”

Aidan, smug bastard, is smiling and tapping a finger against the grimy table. “You’ll see,” he says.

They disembark at a small station in Wales. For all the sun in England, it’s overcast in Wales, naturally, and Dean’s grateful for his long sleeves. Definitely not Italy.

However Aidan’s still got that damned infectious grin of his and Dean has to admit he’s intrigued so he follows him off platform and through the narrow streets without complaint. The town is built on a series of steep hills and it isn’t long before Dean starts to feel winded. Aidan however strides on with long legged ease, not seeming to be the least bit out of breath. They pass tea shops and pastel painted cottages that cut a sharp contrast against the grey skies. All of the buildings for that matter are unique for more than just the colours, they don’t look like your typical Welsh cottages but rather like they’ve somehow stumbled into an Italian village. And suddenly it all makes sense to Dean.

“It’s pretty, right?” Aidan says when he catches Dean looking. “It was created by some eccentric designer who wanted to bring the Mediterranean to Wales, I don’t know, but we’re going in there.” Aidan points to a terracotta and sky blue building at the top of the hill. There’s a fountain sitting in front of it with a golden mermaid pouring water from a conch shell. Her tail shines even with the cloudy sky. It’s pretty in a kitsch sort of way.

When they step inside, Dean sees row upon row of hand crafted pottery. Plates and vases and bowls, each one coloured brightly and glazed.

Aidan leads him through the aisles to a back room with two rows of pottery wheels sitting opposite each other and one sitting front and centre. It’s obviously used as a classroom of sorts, however right now it is standing empty.

“Are we allowed back here?” Dean asks dubiously.

“Sure,” Aidan replies as he fires up the kiln and produces two handfuls of clay from an industrial bin at the back of the room. The fact that he knows his way around is something that is not lost on Dean.

“How often have you been here?” Dean asks with a suspicious narrowing of his eyes.

Aidan doesn’t answer, only smiles in response. He deposits the globs of clay with a solid thunk on two neighbouring pottery wheels and takes a seat on one of the stools. Dean cautiously sits down next to him. He can’t help but notice that the bandage on Aidan’s hand is now a solid grey, a stark contrast to the pristine white it had been only a few days earlier. Aidan, however, doesn’t seem the least bit concerned.

“Right so what you’ve got to do is wedge it,” he says to Dean as he begins to drive the heel of his good hand into the clay, rolling and moulding it until it’s soft and smooth. Dean copies him; the clay feels cold and hard to the touch and leaves a powdery residue on his fingers. “Come on don’t be dainty about it, you’ve got to _really_ dig in.” Aidan accentuates this by driving his palm down hard. “Show it some tough love.”

Dean laughs through his nose. “This is mad,” he says, but he does as Aidan says and pushes the heel of his palm down into the clay. It reminds him of that one time a client requested a sensual massage with oils. The client had been large enough and plump enough that Dean had felt like he was manipulating a mound of greased dough.

“So are you going to tell my why you’re some secret pottery master or is it all part of the mystery?” Dean asks sometime around the point that he almost sends his clay spinning across the room for the second time (Aidan had laughed and exclaimed that he’d told Dean he had to find his centre which Dean still isn’t sure he understands but it is apparently important when it comes to pottery).

Aidan shrugs and pinches his fingers around the rim of what’s shaping up to be a very well-formed mug. Even working mostly one handed, it’s clear that Aidan has a well-honed talent. Dean’s own piece, which he had intended to be a pot, looks sad and wilted and wobbles round and round on the wheel like it’s on its last legs.

“I have classes here sometimes.”

“You come all the way out to Wales just for pottery lessons?”

“I hold them… I teach here sometimes, bit of money on the side you know?”

“Oh I didn’t know I was in the company of a teacher,” Dean grins. “That’s kind of hot.”

Aidan shrugs modestly, looking down at his mug, he’s powered down the wheel and he’s attaching a length of clay in a perfect hoop, the handle.  There’s a sudden coyness that only makes him more attractive to Dean. “It’s mostly just old folk out for Sunday teas, nothing special.”

“I bet they love you.”

Aidan laughs. “They do a bit.” He sets his mug down and looks over at Dean’s sorry excuse for a vase. Dean thinks maybe he’s been pressing too hard because the tip which should be funnelling out has collapsed in on itself and it’s all looking a little phallic if he’s honest. “Christ,” Aidan exhales. “What’re you like? Come here.”

Aidan swings his long legs over his stool and he goes to stand behind Dean, taking his hands in his own. Dean sucks in a breath; he can feel the damp clay on Aidan’s fingertips and the rough texture of the gauze, the warmth of Aidan’s chest against his back and the quiet sounds of his breath right by Dean’s ear. It’s intimate and crossing the line of every cliché in every romance film that Dean has seen.

“Don’t you dare drop a reference,” Aidan warns into his ear as he guides Dean’s hands over the clay. Slowly, the pot begins to take shape beneath their hands. “See now? The clay’s always going to want to spin out with the rotation; you just have to guide it. Don’t force it.”

Dean remains silent, he can feel goose bumps prickling the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck and he bites down on his lip.

It feels so perfect. He realises that this is more than just another date; this is Aidan showing him a small and vulnerable side of himself that he doesn’t just show to anyone.

“I’m an escort,” Dean blurts out. And then he stops. _This is happening_ , he thinks. He’s actually going to do this. Now. In the middle of Wales while he’s covered in clay. Perhaps it’s better here, it’s harder for Aidan to run when they have a whole train journey between them and the city.

“Come again?” Aidan’s hands pull away from Dean’s, he straightens, still behind Dean but now there is space between them, Dean’s back feels suddenly cold.

“I lied. I’m not in internet business, I’m—“

“An escort.” Aidan finishes for him. He steps around Dean so the pottery wheel is between them, the pot spins round and round looking sad and neglected and Dean lifts his foot from the peddle, letting it slow to a stop. “Like a prostitute?”

Dean shrugs then he nods, he wants to meet Aidan’s eyes defiantly, daring him to have a problem with it. But it’s difficult because he’s also scared witless that Aidan _will_ have a problem with it.

“Ok…” Aidan pulls up a stool. He sits down, still frowning. “I mean, is it full time? Do you…?”

“It’s my main income,” Dean says.

“Huh.” Aidan bobs his head and worries at his lip. He keeps looking up like he’s trying to solve long division in his head. _If N is divisible to the power of three does that mean my kind-of-boyfriend still fucks guys for cash?_ “And you. You sleep with people. For money, right?”

“Yes. Generally.” Dean sighs, he scrubs his face with his hands and he’s sure he must look a little desperate when he says, “Look Aid, I’m sorry, I meant to tell you before, I really did, it’s just…”

“No I remember you trying. The night of the hospital right? I mean, it’s not the kind of thing you just _say_ , I get that.”

“Are you ok with it?”

“Sure.”

“You don’t have to be,” Dean says, even though he really, really wishes Aidan would be.

“I don’t know.” Aidan makes a frustrated noise deep in his throat and he covers his mouth with his hands and Dean knows that body language, he knows the signs when someone’s shutting down. Aidan’s walls are going up and with them, Dean’s heart begins to sink. He’s screwed this up, he knows he has. “Shit Dean, I don’t know! I want to be ok. It feels like the progressive thing to be you know? But I’ve never.” He shakes his head. “I haven’t.”

“It’s fine.” Dean forces a smile. He wonders what Aidan’s seeing when he looks at him now. He’s not certain he wants to know.

Aidan purses his lips and though he still looks hesitant and confused, he returns Dean’s smile. “Well, thanks for telling me I guess. We should get these fired.”

Dean helps Aidan carry the mug and pot to the kiln. Aidan tells him that he’ll get someone to take them out for them when they’re done and Dean is almost certain that hadn’t been part of the original plan, but he doesn’t question it.

Afterwards, the two of them drift through town, walking through the grey drizzle past the pastel cottages and a chippy called the Golden Mermaid, both of them making the token effort of pretending the date’s not ruined until Aidan turns to Dean and somewhat awkwardly suggests that maybe they should head back now, before they hit the evening commute. Again, Dean agrees and doesn’t question it.

The following train journey is one of the stiffest, most uncomfortable experiences of Dean’s life. They take another table seat and Aidan spends almost the entire journey frowning out the window, his fingers drumming a nervous beat on the lacquer surface of the table.

At some point just after they cross over the border to England, he turns to Dean, a question clearly on his lips.  “So Richard’s… not a colleague?”

_Shit._ Dean closes his eyes, silently, he shakes his head.

“Meaning he’s…?”

“I don’t like to talk about it. Confidentiality.” He knows that is answer enough. He feels one part guilty and two parts angry. If Richard had just used his damn common sense and inherent sense of shame and just ignored Dean like all of his other clients would have, then it never would have been an issue. But now Aidan knows and from the muttered curse and the way his hands tighten into fists, Dean’s pretty sure that Aidan’s picturing it now.

Dean’s not sure there’s much he can say, what’s done is done, so he stays silent. He watches the scenery streak by and the way that the mist of rain spatters over the window, droplets gathering in density until they roll down the glass in rivulets.

Aidan doesn’t say another word. They sit across from each other, not making eye contact and looking like a couple of strangers just occupying the same area.

By the time the train finally pulls into Central Station, Dean feels almost relieved. He follows Aidan onto the platform and then they stand together whilst people stream by, waiting until they’re alone.

“I’ll call you, yeah?” Aidan suggests.

_No you won’t,_ Dean thinks.

“Sure,” he smiles.

They exchange what has to be one of the most awkward goodbyes of all time, and this time it isn’t nice and it isn’t sweet. Aidan doesn’t look like he knows whether to hug Dean or shake his hand or just turn and stalk away. In the end he nods and pats him on the shoulder, and then he’s turning and the finality of it cuts through Dean like so many little knives.

“Aidan,” he calls after him and Aidan turns. He doesn’t want this to be the last time he sees Aidan. “Can we talk about this? I’ll answer anything.”

“Except when it’s confidential, right?” Aidan swallows down the burst of venom and he clears his throat. “No, we’ll talk; I just need a bit of time yeah?” Aidan’s already walking backwards like he can’t wait to get away. “I’ll see you around.”

_No you won’t,_ Dean thinks with a bitter sigh.

 

* * *

 

Adam’s still out having the time of his life with Orlando when Dean gets home, so he shuts himself away in his own apartment where he’s free to wallow in his self-pity.

He tries to stay positive, he really does, but it’s hard when he remembers that their pottery, the whole reason they went to bloody Wales in the first place, is still sitting abandoned in a kiln because Aidan couldn’t bear to spend a moment longer with him for them to wait until they were ready. As far as reading dates goes, he’s pretty certain that’s not a good sign.

He turns the television on but doesn’t pay attention to what’s on, he just needs the background noise, and then he curls up under a throw, fully prepared to sulk the night away.

Dean allows himself a few hours of gloriously self-indulgent self-pity. But by the time evening rolls around and the sun is setting and the only light in the room is coming from the cold glare of the television screen, it’s beginning to feel entirely too depressing, even for him. So he sheds his cocoon of sadness and stretches the kinks out of his back and forces himself to do productive things, like tidying, and sorting his backlog of laundry, and doing just about anything to keep himself from checking his phone for messages every damn five minutes.

At some point between checking the expiry date of the contents of his fridge and contemplating actually _finally_ filing his bank statements, he hears footsteps bounding up the stairs and he turns the kettle on, already knowing it’s Adam.

This time, instead of barging in as is the norm, Adam knocks and Dean’s pretty sure it’s because Adam’s half expecting Aidan to be in here with him.

When he opens the door, Adam is radiant and Dean does his best to put on his brightest smile. Just because he’s had a shitty date doesn’t mean he has to put a downer on Adam’s.

“I’m in love.” Adam clutches his heart dramatically as he follows Dean through into the living room. Dean, naturally, has a mug of tea for each of them which he sets down on the table and then he turns to face Adam.

“Go on then,” he says with a good natured sigh. “Tell me everything.”

“Well the gallery didn’t last long. We got kicked out for making out by the pre-Raphaelites.”

“That good, huh?”

“We went down to the docks and he showed me this cute little bistro. He knows this city so well, you know I’ve lived here half my life and I don’t know half the magical little secrets he knows!” Adam is gushing. Dean smiles in all the appropriate places and makes all the appropriate sounds but secretly he’s wishing he’d just ignored the knock and had left Adam to assume he was otherwise occupied.

Although that would have led to an even more depressing conversation the following morning when he would have had to explain that no, he had not been busy having hot sex with Aidan, he had in fact been drowning his sorrows with a microwave meal and whatever was on the television.

“You told him, didn’t you?” Adam guesses suddenly. Dean feels bad for how obvious he must have been, he thought he’d been hiding it well.

Discovered, he nods miserably.

“It didn’t go well?”

“He told me he’d call me.”

“Well that’s not _bad_ … is it?”

Dean looks at Adam, his wonderful, caring friend who never judges and never needs ‘time to think’ or ‘a moment to let it sink in’ or whatever the hell it was Aidan needed. He sighs and his shoulders suddenly feel very heavy.

“It’s not good,” he says.

“You don’t think he’ll come round?”

Dean shrugs, he runs his hands through his hair. “Olrando was right. I was stupid to think I could date.”

“Orlando doesn’t think you shouldn’t be dating he just…”

“Wants me to be like him.”

“He doesn’t want to see you get hurt.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Dean says, wanting to change the topic before he says anything too hasty. Since when did Adam become a bastion for Orlando’s preachings anyway? Just because he’s been on one date with the guy… “At least now I know, hey?”

Adam tuts and pulls him into a hug.

“I’ve got a bottle of red downstairs,” he says. “Want me to bring it up?”

Dean nods into his friend’s shoulder. “Bring DVDs too,” he says, voice slightly muffled. It looks like they’ll be having their movie night after all.

 

* * *

 

The following evening, Dean dresses in his finest and welcomes the distraction of his booking with Richard with determined eagerness. He steadfastly refuses to feel guilty about it, this is his job and Aidan’s opinions are not going to factor on that. He’s told him the truth now, he’s done his part, it’s up to Aidan whether he wants rid or not.

Richard’s social event is at The Shipping Forecast. It’s the kind of swanky bar that Dean has heard of but has never been to because the drinks cost about as much as he’d charge for two all-nighters. That may be an exaggeration, but it’s not far off.

Richard seems tense, more so than normal even and Dean’s not certain why. He was fine before they entered the bar, he’d complimented Dean on his suit and he’d even worn a playful smile as they’d discussed how he would be introducing Dean to everyone. They’d decided on friends, old friends who play squash together. Dean had affected a cultured English accent (which didn’t sit well with the New Zealand and kept slipping on the hard Es) and mimed draping a cardigan over his shoulders and the two of them had smiled like they were sharing a devilish secret together, which to be honest they were.

But within five minutes of getting their drinks and beginning to make their rounds, Richard had frozen. He’d stared across the room like he’d seen a ghost and from that moment on, a wall had been erected.

“What’s the matter?” Dean asks softly when he’s had enough. Richard’s stalking the edges of the room like a caged tiger.

Richard shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, which is clearly complete bullshit.

‘Nothing’ as it turns out, is heading directly towards them and Richard utters a soft curse and glances desperately at Dean.

“Richard! Is that really you?” A tall, elegantly dressed man with a subtle American accent is walking towards them. Everything about him is understated class.

“Business rival?” Dean queries when the American is still far enough away for him to get away with whispering.

“My ex,” Richard returns out of the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” Dean blinks. That’s much worse.

Dean’s not sure what gives him the compulsion to do what he does next. Maybe it’s the calm, collected way the American glides over the floor like he’s sashayed his way out of a Graham Greene novel. Perhaps it’s transference and when he sees the brief look of panic on Richard’s face he’s really seeing himself as he watches Aidan walk away after a stiff pat on the shoulder and a lukewarm ‘I’ll call you’. Whatever the reason, as The Quiet American draws closer, Dean leans in close to Richard and hisses, “You can pretend I’m your boyfriend if you want.”

Richard almost chokes on his champagne. “What?” he looks at Dean, disbelieving. However the time to talk is over now and The Quiet American is upon them.

“I didn’t know you were in the country,” Richard says as they embrace awkwardly.

“Only briefly, I’m flying back tomorrow afternoon, you know how it is.” The Quiet American gives a weary smile and turns to Dean. “Who’s this?” he asks and his smile becomes slightly fixed.

“Lee, this is Dean. My… my friend. Partner?”

Lee looks confused and Richard’s cheeks are beginning to flush red, thoroughly tongue tied. Taking it as his cue, Dean brushes a hand over the small of Richard’s back, just a brief touch, nothing extravagant, but just enough to get the point across.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he smiles pleasantly, holding a hand out to Lee who takes it with a firm shake. He has good hands, a strong wrist.

 “It’s lovely to meet you too.” Lee says. He looks to Richard. “I would’ve called you to let you know I was in the city, but not to worry.” His eyes drift back to Dean. “You seem quite busy.”

“Perhaps another time?” Richard suggests. Lee nods, he lingers for a little while longer, making polite conversation about the English weather but it isn’t long before it becomes clear his attention is drifting and he moves away.

Alone again, Richard exhales deeply and finishes his champagne.

“Bloody hell,” he curses. “What am I going to say now?”

“Just tell him next time you see him that you broke up with me and I’ve been pining for you ever since. It’ll make him second guess ever leaving you I guarantee it. People are always more attractive when you think other people find them attractive too.”

“How do you know _I_ didn’t break up with _him_?”

Dean shrugs. “I’m good at reading these things,” he says. Plus, the rabbit in headlights look kind of gave it away.

“Why did you do that?” Richard asks.

“I don’t know.” And honestly, he doesn’t. It was reckless and impulsive and while he might be both of those things when it comes to skipping countries for ex partners, it’s not the kind of thing he tends to adhere to in social situations. “You didn’t look happy to see him. I thought I’d be giving you an out from an awkward and potentially painful situation.”

“Why would it matter to you?” Richard frowns and shakes his head. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to be confrontational. But why?”

“Why did you invite me here?” Dean counters, not waiting for Richard to reply. “I didn’t ask because I didn’t need to know, it’s not my business. It’s rare that people ask me to these social things, however, the majority of the times that they _do_ it’s because either they don’t want to go alone and they have no one else to ask, or they have something to prove to someone. I was just helping you out.”

Richard is staring at Dean with an unreadable expression and after a while, Dean begins to fidget uncomfortably.

“I never asked you here to prove a point to anyone,” Richard says finally. “Least of all to him.”

“Then why did you?”

“Is it weird to say I enjoy your company?”

“A little,” Dean admits, but he’s smiling.

That night, when the party is over and they’re back at Richard’s beautiful ice palace of an apartment with its original artwork and cold leather couches, Dean sinks down into the warmth of Richard’s bed. They kiss as Richard guides himself slowly into him and he thinks to himself that when anyone tries to tell him how dirty and heartless his life is, he’ll tell them about this moment.

He doesn’t for a second think about Aidan. And even if he does, it’s not because of guilt.

He tells himself this.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean can be a pissy bastard sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick shout out to everyone for leaving such lovely comments. I like to reply to everyone individually but can be a bit tardy with it, mostly because I'm too busy hiding behind my hands and blushing furiously, but I really appreciate the feedback, thank you all. <3

At some point, Orlando becomes something of a fixture in their block of flats. Dean’s not certain how, but somewhere along the way, it becomes commonplace for him to bump into Orlando on the stairs or share passing stilted nods in the foyer as one of them is coming and the other’s going.

Dean’s being icy towards Orlando, he knows he is and he feels guilty about it but their already temperamental relationship has become further strained by feelings of jealousy. Ever since Orlando has come on the scene, Dean has been seeing less and less of Adam. He hadn’t realised how much he’d come to count on Adam’s random visits until they stopped happening.

Adam still drops by of course, he isn’t the type to forget his friends just because he’s met someone, but it feels to Dean like those visits are becoming briefer and briefer and they’re always flavoured with ‘Orlando did this’ or ‘Orlando said that’.

Adam’s smitten, of course he is. A better friend would be happy for him. Dean’s beginning to think he’s not a better friend, he’s a petty selfish friend who feels threatened by Adam’s new boyfriend, in other words, he’s the worst kind of friend. So he keeps it to himself. Mostly.

“Hello, stranger,” Orlando greets one day as Dean descends the steps to the basement; laundry bag hefted over one shoulder. Dean refrains from rolling his eyes because he’d only seen Orlando yesterday in the hall when Orlando had asked him if he had any gum and Dean had said no even though he did, it’s hardly call for ‘stranger’.

“What brings you down here?” Dean asks as he clears the last step and swings his bag onto the ground. He notes that Orlando is dressed in a pair of Adam’s old jogging bottoms and gym shirt, both of which are a couple sizes too small for Orlando and ride up revealing a strip of obnoxiously tan skin and sculpted hips.

Orlando pats a hand on the dryer he’s leaning against. “Just giving my clothes a quick spin, figured it’s easier than running all the way home just for a change.”

“Right.” Dean doesn’t look up from where he’s rooting around his bag for his washing powder and softener. Because monopolising their facilities is easier than going home, of course it is. Dean wonders when was the last time Orlando even went home, now he thinks about it, he’s fairly certain he’s bumped into him pretty routinely every day for the past week.

Finally, he finds his soap suds and he pulls them out with a triumphant grunt.

“The washer’s already being used,” Orlando points out helpfully. “4B put a load on just before you came down.”

Dean looks at Orlando, he’s tempted to ask why he couldn’t have just told him that sooner and saved them the couple of minutes of uncomfortable conversation. He’s really not in the mood to deal with Orlando today, and not just because it’s been almost two weeks with still no word from Aidan.

“Thanks,” Dean says, wondering briefly if Orlando can actually tell just how little he means it. He’s about to turn and head for the stairs when Orlando stops him.

“If you hold on a second my drying’s almost done, I’ll come up with you.”

Dean doesn’t want to hold on a second. He really really doesn’t. He hasn’t showered and he’s dressed in his oldest, comfiest pair of sweatpants and he was kind of counting on not being sociable for at least another day.

Sucking in a deep, weary breath, he turns back around and perches himself on the bottom step.

True to his word, the dryer clicks over after only a couple minutes and Orlando yanks the door open. He bundles his clothes into a ball and hugs them close to his chest, breathing in the lemony warmth and Dean purses his lips. Who puts on a whole wash for one pair of jeans and a t-shirt, anyway? Orlando, that’s who.

“Ready,” Orlando says and Dean stands. Together they make their way up from the basement. “Why don’t you come round to Adam’s for a bit? He’ll be happy to see you,” Orlando says as he takes the stairs two at a time in easy long legged strides.

Dean’s quiet for a long while, in two minds about the offer. On one hand, he’s rubbed up in all kinds of wrong ways over Orlando’s invitation like Adam’s place is his place all of a sudden. Dean doesn’t go to Adam’s, Adam goes to his and he’d appreciate it if Orlando didn’t go round just changing the order of things like some great pompous ass. On the other hand, he misses Adam. He misses him a lot.

Dean decides it couldn’t hurt to stop in just for a short while and he nods his head, following Orlando into Adam’s flat.

He always feels a weird sense of discord when he steps into Adam’s. The layout is almost exactly like his with rooms leading off from a short entrance hallway, but the décor is completely different. It’s bright and cheerful and Adam likes to wear his life on his walls, they’re lined with his collection of framed Laurel and Hardy film prints and hundreds of photographs of friends and family. Sitting in pride of place on the top of Adam’s television is a framed photograph of the docks at sunrise. It’s one of Dean’s and Adam had insisted on buying it off him vouching that one day Dean would be a famous photographer and he’d be able to brag to everyone that he’d been his first buyer. It sits in the centre of the room like a scribbled drawing pinned to the fridge of a proud parent for all the world to see.

Dean can hear Adam banging pots and pans in the kitchen.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Orlando announces and again, Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes. Adam pops his head round the doorway then he shouts happily and marches over, pulling Dean into a hug. He’s wearing a novelty ‘kiss the cook’ apron and clutching a wooden spoon.

“Have you emerged from your pit or are you still sulking?”

“I’m not sulking,” Dean scowls, then he catches himself and wipes his expression carefully blank.

“Ok,” Adam doesn’t sound convinced. “Well it’s brilliant to see you anyway. I’m making pasta and I think there’s enough to feed a small army, I never know the right amounts, do you want some?”

“I don’t want to interrupt your date night,” Dean says, looking pointedly to where Orlando is disappearing into Adam’s bedroom, presumably to get changed.

 “It’s hardly a date night. Stay?” Adam pleads, clutching the wooden spoon in both hands.

Dean sighs. “Sure,” he says, he looks again at the closed bedroom door. “How long’s he been here? A little early to be playing house husband don’t you think?”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“You know what.” Adam taps him lightly with the spoon, smearing bolognaise sauce on his knuckles. “Stop. Now come talk to me while I get this meal finished.”

Licking the bolognaise sauce from the back of his hand, Dean follows Adam through into the kitchen. It’s stuffy from the heat of the cooker and Adam has the window over the sink flung open so the thrum of the city drifts up to them from the street below, the sounds of traffic and nightlife and the muffled thud thud of music coming from a house party in one of the neighbouring buildings.

Dean finds a spot by the fridge that feels reasonably out of the way and leans against the wall.

“So, have you heard anything?” Adam asks as he stirs the sauce and turns down the heat of the pasta to keep it from boiling over.

“Regarding…?” He has a pretty good idea what Adam’s referring to, but he’s not in the mood to talk about much of anything so he’s hoping that if he plays obtuse enough Adam will just give up.

“Well I’m assuming Aidan still hasn’t called or you would have been in touch with me by now,” Adam glances over his shoulder at Dean. “And you wouldn’t be standing in my kitchen right now with a face like thunder. I meant about your client problem.”

Dean’s not sure if he should feel aggravated by Adam’s blunt observation, mostly he just feels chagrined by the fact that his friend can read him so easily.

“Actually yes, Alison came through with a name; I’m meeting him on Monday.”

“Is this Alison as in Alison Bruce?” Orlando asks and Dean starts, he hadn’t heard him come in. Orlando’s leaning in the kitchen doorway dressed once again in his own clothes complete with totally unnecessary scarf. “What are you doing still in contact with that devil woman?”

“It’s a one time thing,” Dean says shortly. “I don’t make a habit of contacting her.”

Orlando grimaces and makes a hissing noise between his teeth. “Even still, I don’t think it’s a good idea, Deano. You know how manipulative she can be, you don’t want to start owing her favours.”

“She owes me, actually.”

“So what’s she doing for you? Passing on a client?”

Dean nods.

“Who’re you taking along for the initial meeting?”

Dean hesitates and Orlando groans. “Jesus Deano, you do normally take someone with you, don’t you?” He looks suddenly stricken as he adds, “You do normally _have_ first meetings, right?”

“Of course I do, I’m not a complete idiot!”

“In public?”

“Yes!” Dean thinks it best not to mention Richard. But then Richard was kind of special circumstances, he’d found Dean through one of Dean’s longest, most reliable clients. He’d felt fairly confident that any friend of the great and powerful Ian’s had to be ok. Regardless, he’s pretty certain Olrando would have a meltdown if he found out, especially with the fake name shit.

Dean pushes at one of the magnets on Adam’s fridge, it’s a crocodile wearing a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses his family had bought for him in Florida. “I was thinking of bringing Adam along.”

“Adam?” Orlando guffaws, actually guffaws. “You need someone who’s intimidating, who looks like they could tear someone a new one if they dare step out of line. Adam’s hardly big or scary looking is he?”

“Hey!” Adam glowers between the two of them; waving his spoon and flicking bolognaise sauce onto the floor. “I am standing right here you know.”

“Sorry love, but it’s true.” Orlando has the grace to look at least a little bit sorry.

“And who do you suggest, Orlando? Who out of the _wealth_ of weight lifting muscle bound brick shithouses that I know should I choose? Because I’m so spoilt for choice I just don’t know.”

 “I’ll give you a number for a guy.”

“Careful, I’ve never met the guy. Won’t I need to bring someone along to screen him?”

“Dean,” Adam warns quietly.

Orlando, however, is either completely oblivious to or politely ignoring the obvious antagonism.

“His name’s Graham, he’s a top bloke. Works backstage at the playhouse, terrifying ‘til you get to know him and realise he’s soft as anything.”

“Well that’s handy, isn’t that handy, Dean?” Adam looks at Dean and Dean can read the unspoken message in his steely expression clear as day – _you’d better fucking say thank you, you pissy bastard_.

Dean sighs, he rubs at his tired stinging eyes. “Yeah give me his number. Thanks.”

“Anytime, mate.” Orlando nods and smiles happily.

Adam returns to the stove. “You two get the table set this’ll be ready in a few minutes,” he tells them over his shoulder.

Feeling suddenly contrite over his outburst and uncomfortable with the resulting quiet, Dean ducks his head and gathers a handful of forks and plates then follows Orlando through into the other room.

Later, once they’re all full of pasta and wine and Dean’s gathering his bits to return to his own flat, Adam follows him out into the hall, leaving Orlando sitting in the living room.

“Are you ok?” Adam asks, keeping his voice hushed. “Really?”

“I’m fine, just tired.”

Adam nods his head slowly and he looks sympathetic. “I know you’re going through a time of it at the moment and I’m always here if you need to talk, you know that.”

“I do,” Dean agrees.

“But you kind of acted like a huge jerk tonight, Dean.” Adam’s brows draw together and he leans back to glance into the living room, checking to make sure Orlando is still where they left him. “Do you have a problem with me seeing Orlando?”

“What?” Dean shakes his head severely. “No! Of course not, he just… I don’t know, he rubs me the wrong way sometimes. I’m happy for you though. He makes you happy, that’s good.”

“I thought the two of you were friends.”

“We are friends. Kind of. Maybe frenemies.”

Adam scoffs at that, looking distinctly unimpressed. “That’s ridiculous,” he says but he pulls Dean into a hug before opening the door. “Promise me you’ll call Graham? I really think it’s a good idea, something about this client has me worried.”

“You don’t know anything about him.”

“I don’t care; it just feels off to me. Be careful.”

“Orlando’s blown it all way out of proportion it’ll be fine.” However Dean smiles and squeezes Adam’s shoulder. “But I’ll call Graham, I promise.”

“Good,” Adam says as Dean steps out into the hall. “And don’t be a stranger.”

Dean gives him an answering wave. He’s halfway up the stairs when he hears Adam’s front door close.

* * *

 

Graham, as it turns out, is every bit the brick shithouse that Orlando made him out to be. With forearms the size of Dean’s thighs, a bald head, and one hell of a beard, Dean’s certain that no one would dare get on the wrong side of him. When Graham talks however, he is so well spoken and gentle mannered that it’s almost jarring.

“Orlando’s told me a lot about his old work,” Graham enthuses as he enfolds Dean’s hand in his big meaty palms. “Some of the things that you have to put up with, it’s admirable to be honest. Very admirable.”

“Thanks,” Dean smiles, feeling a little taken aback, but pleasantly so. He glances around the café until he finds two tables that would do the job. Dean takes a seat at one and considering they still have a half hour before his client is due, Graham seats himself down at the same one for now.

“Right so if you sit facing me when he comes in so you can see my face, then if I give the signal you come over, does that sound ok?”

Graham nods and Dean glances at the serving counter. “Do you want a coffee while you wait?” he asks. He has no idea what the coffee here is like, he’s never been before. There was no way in hell he was going to have this meeting in the Pogue Mahone.

“Sure, a double espresso works for me.” Graham reaches into his pocket for his wallet but Dean stops him.

“No ah, you’re here as a favour to me, I’ll buy it.”

At Graham’s happy grin Dean knows he made the right choice by offering and he heads for the counter, putting in an order for a double espresso and an Americano for himself (the fact that he avoids the mochas has nothing to do with Aidan). By the time he returns with the drinks Graham’s moved to the other table so Dean drops off his drink with a smile then settles down to wait.

The client shows up fifteen minutes late, not a good start.

When he does finally arrive, Dean can tell instinctively that it’s him just by the way he holds himself. He’s tall, well built, obviously spends time in the gym.

“Manu?” Dean asks, rising from his seat as he approaches. Manu nods in confirmation, taking the chair opposite. “Thank you for coming,” Dean tells him.

“Sure,” Manu grunts and sniffs. “Not sure why I really needed to though, I already went through this over the phone.”

 “That was with Bruce’s Boys, their screening process is different to mine, I prefer face to face.” Dean doesn’t drop his pleasant smile as he takes a sip of his coffee, watching Manu’s reactions carefully. Manu might not be aware of it, but this is all part of the screening process, every last bit; his body language and behaviour counts just as much as any proof of ID, possibly more. “Don’t worry it won’t take long, I just need personal ID and proof of address.”

Manu reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet then pulls out a driving licence and a crumpled bank statement folded in with the notes. He drops them in the middle of the table then pushes them towards Dean.

“So what kind of things are you up for?” Manu asks.

“We’ll discuss that another time,” Dean glances around the café, noting the young couple with a small child to their left. “Somewhere a little more private. Have you done this kind of thing before?”

“Sure.”

Dean waits, he watches Manu with raised brows, when no further explanations seem forthcoming, he prompts by asking, “Can you remember the names of the agencies?”

“Never used agencies before. Just street walkers, craigslist, you know the type.”

“Mm,” Dean looks back down at the licence, jotting a few notes in his planner. So far he’s not so impressed with this Manu. He relies a lot on his gut and right now his gut is fairly screaming at him to keep clear. “Do you have an evening number I can contact you on?”

“You’ve got my mobile number haven’t you?”

“I need a landline too.”

“I don’t have a landline.”

“Work number then.”

“Fuck,” Manu laughs. “I’m not giving you my work number, why do you need that shit anyway?”

“Precautions.” Dean closes his planner and pushes the licence and statement back across the table. “You’ll find anyone else you go to will ask the same thing.” He shrugs lightly, still smiling.

Manu frowns and for a long while Dean doesn’t think he’s going to answer. Just as he’s about to call their meeting to an end and bid a polite but frosty farewell, Manu gives. Reluctantly, like Dean’s just asked him to perform the tasks of Hercules, he recites his number and Dean flips his planner open to jot it down in the margin.

“Is that your workline or…?”

“Landline,” Manu replies. “I forgot, had it installed this morning.” He grins like a wolf.

“Right…” Dean says slowly. “Well, that’s all for now, I’ll be in touch.” Dean stands, leaving his coffee largely untouched.

“You’ll be in touch?” Manu laughs. “The fuck is this, a job interview or something?”

Dean ignores the question. “Thank you for your time.” He says. He doesn’t offer his hand as he leaves and as he greets Graham at the door, he glances back, satisfied that Manu has spotted the other man. It never hurts to have clients know that you have friends, big tough friends who won’t hesitate to pay you a visit if ever you cause trouble.

As they walk down the street Graham turns to him curiously. “So? How’d it go?”

“Awful,” Dean says with a roll of his eyes. “He was a dick.”

“Not one for the client books then?”

“Definitely not.” Dean shakes his head and pulls a face. He has no intentions of calling Manu whatsoever.

* * *

 

Alison calls as he’s walking home. Dean’s not particularly surprised; he’d been expecting her to call since leaving the café. It was all dependent on how long it would take for Manu to call her up and chew her ear off about him.

“I suppose I just won’t do you any favours from now on,” Alison’s silky voice drawls, not waiting for him to speak first. “If that’s how you treat all of your clients it’s no wonder you’re struggling, darling.”

“Alison cut the bull; you know he was bad news. It’s probably why you gave him to me.”

“Nonsense,” Alison says primly. “He was nothing but a perfect gentleman to me. It’s you, my dear, you must bring out the worst in people.”

Dean looks skywards as he counts mentally to ten. He’d parted ways with Graham some ways back, preferring to walk home alone and try to get some headspace. “Well he had you fooled then because that guy was definitely trouble. If you’re smart you won’t book him in either.”

“Well you see, we don’t need him. _We’re_ fully booked,” she practically sing songs. “I hope you don’t expect another favour from me, that was your lot used up, darling.”

“Yeah I won’t be calling you again, don’t worry.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” Alison says with honey thick sarcasm. “Ciao!” She hangs up before he can reply.

Dean sighs and looks down at his phone before pocketing it. He shouldn’t be surprised, really. Honestly, what was he even expecting from Alison? Loathe as he is to admit it, Orlando had been right about calling her being a bad idea. Orlando had been right _again_.

Christ but that pisses him off.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard should really call Lee and Aidan should just call, period.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actual update for realz now.

Dean regards his reflection with the stark brutality of a man who’s beginning to realise they’re not sure they like what they see. Those bags under his eyes aren’t getting any better; perhaps he should try using moisturiser. Orlando uses moisturiser. Of course Olrando uses moisturiser.

There had been a time when he’d had no trouble bringing clients in. He’d been one of the favourites in the agency and when he’d gone solo he’d taken more than half of his regulars with him (it had been part of the cause of the bad blood between him and Alison). But over the years, the clients had dwindled, there were less and less new faces and the old hobbiests either went on to greener pastures or dropped out of the game completely.

And blaming it on the current economy can only get you so far.

The fact is, he’s getting old; he’s felt it for some time now, old and tired of this shit. And now he’s realising for the first time that he’s beginning to look old too.

Cupping a hand to his stomach, he pokes at the soft flesh there critically. Then he lifts his shirt and paunches his gut out, only to suck it back in again, sighing miserably.

“What?” Adam asks as Dean returns from the bathroom and sinks into the couch cushions. Orlando’s busy with rehearsals which means Dean has his best friend all to himself for the night.

“I’m old.”

“You are,” agrees Adam, eyes riveted on the television whilst he flicks through the channels. “So old. Ancient even, an absolute relic.” He chuckles when Dean swats him on the shoulder. “You’re fine, stop doubting yourself.”

“It’s not as easy as it used to be.”

 “Look, it’s not because of you. This blip is just… bad timing. Didn’t you say yourself the only reason your last guy left you was because he got some girl pregnant? Not because of you.”

Dean sighs again, as right as Adam may be, it does little to silence the nagging little voices of self-doubt. How long can he keep doing this for, really? He doesn’t want to be one of those guys who doesn’t know when to get out before it’s too late… until one day he wakes up and finds himself alone; no income, no relationship, no life, nothing.

He could’ve gone into IT. Accounting maybe. It would likely have been soul destroying and the tie would’ve felt like a noose around his neck, growing tighter with every meeting and empty promotion, but it would’ve been normal, the kind of thing you could tell people about without losing them. He thinks about Aidan and how if he were nothing but a pencil pusher they’d probably be together right now, sharing drinks and joking about how shit their co-workers were.

“I just don’t know how long I can keep doing this.”

Adam looks at Dean. He presses mute and sets the remote aside, giving his friend his full attention. “What do you really mean, Dean?” he asks softly. “How long you can keep doing it, or whether you _want_ to keep doing it?”

Dean shrugs. “Both?”

“Well you can keep doing it ‘til the cows come home. You’re as gorgeous now as when I first met you. More so probably, at least you have some semblance of style now – something I take full credit for by the way.” Dean rolls his eyes but stays quiet. Adam continues. “But if it’s a case of you not _wanting_ to do it anymore, then I’d say yeah, get out. As long as you’re sure you’d be doing it for yourself.”

“Who else would I be doing it for?”

“I don’t know.” Adam presses his lips together and shrugs. “Aidan?”

“Trust me, I’m pretty sure he’s not even in the picture anymore,” Dean ignores the small twist of pain as he says this.

“Either way,” says Adam. “You’re ok with who you are, right?” Dean nods. “Then you’ve just got to find someone who accepts you and what you do. If Aidan isn’t that guy then it’s his loss.”

Dean squeezes Adam shoulder, not for the first time thankful for his friend’s sheer existence. “I’m probably going to be late paying rent,” he warns.

“I can wait,” Adam smirks, pressing the sound on the remote and returning his attention to the television. “I know where you live.”

 

* * *

 

Dean feels the bed dip as Richard gets up.

He rolls over onto his stomach and props his chin on folded arms, watching as Richard tosses the knotted condom in the bin then steps outside of the bedroom into the hall. Richard returns soon after clutching two bottles of frosted water. He hands one to Dean then leans his hip against his dresser, opening his own bottle and taking a large swig.

It had taken at least four sessions before Richard felt relaxed enough around Dean that he didn’t immediately grab for something to cover himself up right after they’d finished. Dean finds his modesty strangely sweet.

Dean sips at his water, regarding Richard lightly. They’ll be out of time soon but Dean’s in no hurry. He feels warm and sated after the sex. Sex with Richard isn’t like fucking, he wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s making love (he hates that term, so purple and tawdry) but there’s something inherently gentle about the way Richard handles him. He likes to touch, does Richard. Stroking him and trailing fingers over Dean’s skin like he’s learning braille. It’s… intimate.

“You never told me how things went with that ex of yours,” Dean says as he plays with the cap of his water bottle. “Did he call you?”

“He did.”

“I thought he might.”

Richard laughs softly. He worries at his bottom lip and glances up at Dean in a way that seems coy. “He was very curious about you.”

“He still wants you,” Dean laughs. “I could’ve told you that at the party. It’s obvious.”

“Perhaps.”

“And what did you tell him?” Dean reseals the bottle. He rolls onto his back and lets the bottle fall onto the covers beside him. The sheets are twisted around his hips, barely covering him and he leaves them there. He knows how that makes him look, white sheets against his tanned skin, he’s no fool. “Did you tell him how ridiculously in love with you I was and how awful you feel to have to hurt me but I’m not the one you need?” Dean chuckles to himself at the thought, scratching the light growth of stubble on his chin.

“No,” comes Richard’s simple, quiet reply.

Dean tilts his head so he’s looking at Richard upside down, curious. “I thought you’d want to make him jealous?”

Richard’s quiet for a moment and his gaze is distant and Dean knows he’s somewhere in the past. “It broke my heart when it ended,” Richard says softly. “After Lee I didn’t… with anyone. Until you of course.”

“Of course,” says Dean.

“I wanted to spend my life with that man. He wanted me to move to America with him, but I couldn’t, because work was just as important to me.” He says this with the bitter edge of regret. “And with the distance....”

“You couldn’t see another way,” Dean finishes softly. He can relate. After all, isn’t that what he moved here for? Because of love? As false and misguided as it was. Their stories aren’t so different, his and Richard’s. They both had a choice to make and whilst he was the one that leapt, Richard was the one who stayed. And in the end, neither of them got the ending they had hoped for.

“He’s back in the country next week; he asked if I’d like to go for a coffee.”

“That sounds promising.”

Richard hums but there is no enthusiasm behind the sound. He sets his bottled water on the dresser and rests his palms on the wood, standing there, naked and open. “I already know what he wants to talk about. An associate told me he’s been head hunted into their company. He’s moving here, that’s what he wants to tell me.”

“Well there you go,” Dean says quietly. Perhaps Richard will get his ending after all. “It all worked out in the end.”

Richard crosses the room and drops down onto the bed, bouncing the mattress. Dean rolls into the sudden incline, pressing into Richard’s side. Richard frowns suddenly and reaches underneath himself, retrieving Dean’s bottled water. He stares at it, wiping a finger over the clouded plastic. “It all feels different now, though.”

That’s when the doubt that had been dancing at the back of Dean’s mind becomes a full blown concern.

“Richard,” Dean props himself against Richard’s chest, arms folded and staring hard at him. “I don’t want to assume or anything, but if your doubts are in any way related to me… then you should meet Lee for coffee. Honestly.”

Richard looks at Dean for a beat too long and then he smiles. “It’s not because of you. Why would it be?” And perhaps it would have been more believable if Richard hadn’t then reached out to stroke the tiny hairs that feather out from just behind the shell of Dean’s ear.

 

* * *

 

It’s been two weeks and two days to the day that Dean last saw Aidan and he’s pretty much resigned himself to the fact that whatever could have been is not going to be.

And so, when Aidan’s caller ID flashes on screen one morning, Dean feels an instant of fear and thinks briefly about not answering. He’s not entirely certain he wants to hear what Aidan has to say.

Eventually, however, he does answer.

“Hello?” he says, trying not to sound too hesitant.

“Dean, hey. How’s it going?”

Something heavy and unpleasant curdles in Dean’s belly. It feels good to hear Aidan’s voice again. Too good.

“Oh you know.” _Business as usual_. “Great. How’re you?”

“Good, good…”

Dean worries at a pulled thread on his couch cushion, he’s not certain what’s going to happen, but whatever it is, he’s waiting for Aidan to take the lead.

“So I’ve been thinking a lot.”

“Go on…” Dean says carefully.

“Sorry it’s taken me so long to call.”

“That’s ok,” he says, even though it isn’t really, but what can he say? At least Aidan’s calling now. “What have you been thinking?”

“To be honest mate, I’d like to meet up to talk about it, if that’s ok with you.”

“Are we going to talk about it? Or are we going to meet only for you to tell me you want nothing to do with me?” Dean’s pulled at the loose thread so much he’s in danger of making a hole. “Because if that’s the case, that’s fine. I’d just rather you do it over the phone. Save me the trouble, you know?”

“No, I want to talk,” Aidan says quickly. “I don’t want to just blow you off. I mean---“ he exhales. “Shit, poor choice of words, sorry. Can we meet? Please?”

Dean frowns. He feels relieved, but at the same time he tries to bury it down, he doesn’t want to get his hopes up too early. “Where do you want to meet?” he says finally.

 

* * *

 

They meet outside Rumours, the same bar they went to for their first date. It seemed like the logical spot at the time.

But now, as Dean approaches it, he feels painful nostalgia for that first date washing over him and he’s beginning to regret it. Aidan is already waiting for him outside. He hadn’t gone inside, perhaps he’s feeling just as uncomfortable as Dean is.

“I got you a coffee,” Aidan says, holding out a takeaway cup for Dean. “You haven’t been in the Pogue for so long I figured you’d be having cravings.”

Dean takes the coffee. He notices that there’s something scribbled on the side, half hidden by the cardboard sleeve. Curious, he pushes it up to find a small doodle of what Dean guesses is supposed to be a self-portrait of Aidan. It looks sad with a downturned mouth and dots on the chin that could either be freckles or stubble and a mess of black squiggles for hair. There’s a speech bubble by his head that reads ‘ _sorry I suck_ ’.

When Dean looks back at Aidan, he’s smiling, albeit sheepishly. “I really am sorry it took me so long to call.”

“I kind of figured you weren’t going to.”

“No, I was always going to, it’s just…” Aidan runs a hand through his tangled black curls. “I don’t know, it’s weird. I didn’t know what to think really. Then I was helping my friend move flats and it was easier not to, you know? Like if I didn’t think then I didn’t have to go making a decision.” They’re walking now, side by side down the street. They’re headed towards the city centre and Aidan’s gesturing with his hands as he talks. Dean notices that his bandage is gone now, there’s a long pink scar running along the palm of his hand, cutting directly over his lifeline. “Then I thought I should wait for a good time… only I kept seeing Richard come into the shop. And each time he did I’d get mad like he was stealing you from me. Which is daft because, well, first off I don’t _own_ you and—“

“Did you say anything to him?” Dean interrupts.

Aidan shakes his head. “Nah man, nothing. Though I may have accidentally-on-purpose messed up his order a few times.”

"Aid, that's terrible." Dean fires Aidan a disapproving look and Aidan waves it off.

“I didn’t poison it or anything, just gave him full fat when he asked for half fat… maybe mixed up the salt and sugar shaker once or twice. It was just weird seeing him. Knowing that he’s… you know. With you.”

“He’s not _with_ me,” Dean tells him. “It’s just… business.”

“No, I get that, I do.” Aidan nods. “I’m just only human, I guess.”

They lapse into silence. Dean notices that they’re walking a similar path to the one they took on the night of the hospital. Only this time, as they pass the cobbles, Aidan doesn’t try and balance on them, he walks beside Dean with his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his jacket and his brow drawn low in a frown.

“So what made you call me in the end?” Dean asks when he can’t take the quiet any longer.

“Because I missed you,” says Aidan, and he looks at Dean with such earnestness, that Dean can almost ignore the silent ‘but’ he feels hovering in the air. _I missed you, but… it’ll never work, this isn’t what I want, I could never love a whore…_

“Are you hungry?” Dean hopes the distraction of food will mean that the lingering ‘but’ will never have to be spoken aloud.

Aidan seems to mull the idea over for a while. “Yeah I could eat,” he grins.

They don’t kiss; it’s not that kind of date. Aidan makes no move to try, even when they’re saying goodbye, and Dean doesn’t kiss Aidan, because he’s fairly certain he’ll be rejected if he tried.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If life is like jenga then Dean's tower is stacked and close to toppling.

“I’m thinking of moving in with Orlando.”

Dean nearly drops the glass he’s cleaning. “What?”

Adam’s hovering behind him, picking nervously at the sticky label of his beer bottle. There’s a sad pile of similarly shredded labels lying on Dean’s coffee table and suddenly Dean understands why Adam’s been so fidgety all night; like a frightened rabbit.

“We’re moving in together. I’m sorry Dean, I would’ve told you sooner but, well, with everything that’s been going on there hasn’t really—“

“Sooner? How long have you been planning this?”

“A week maybe? I don’t know, we only decided a few days ago.”

“You decided…” Dean closes his eyes, he sets the clean glass on the drying rack and turns to face Adam, dirty dish water and soap suds dripping from his hands. “Shit Adam, you’ve only been seeing him a few weeks, did you decide this after the first date or the second?”

“We’ve been together over two months, actually,” Adam snaps. “Not that you’d notice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Adam pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses and sets the bottle on the counter. “Never mind, just, maybe you could be happy for me? Like a friend would be?”

“It’s a bad idea.” Dean turns, looking for a hand towel and why are there never any when you damn well need one? In the end, he resorts to wiping his hands on his jeans, shaking his head. “A really bad idea.”

“I wasn’t asking your opinion, it’s happening, I’m just telling you.”

“Right, well, what about this place? Aren’t you supposed to be landlord?”

“That doesn’t mean I have to live here.”

“Why can’t Orlando move in with you?” Dean knows he’s being petulant and unreasonable, but the thought of Adam moving out… the thought of him not living a flight of stairs away, of not bumping into him in the hallway,  of him not being there when Dean needs him… Dean really, really doesn’t want Adam to move out.

Adam gestures around Dean’s small kitchen which is, admittedly, quite cramped. As is the rest of his flat and Adam’s is exactly the same as Dean’s.

“The whole time Orlando’s been at mine we’ve been in each other’s hair. We’d go mad if we had to do that permanently.”

“Then tell Orlando to spend more time at his. It’s not like you’re attached at the hip.”

“Dean.” Adam looks at Dean with such a sad expression, like he’s disappointed in him. “I want to move in with Orlando. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been this lucky. Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

Dean hates seeing that disappointment in his friend’s eyes, it hurts because some part of him knows that Adam’s right. He’s being a shitty friend. But Christ, _Orlando!_ Can’t Adam see what a tool the guy is?

“I can’t be happy for you because it’s bullshit, this whole thing is a joke!” And there it is, it’s out there. The words hang between them like a damning cloud and Dean can see from the tiny flinch as Adam reels back that they’ve hurt him. Adam stands just that little bit straighter, his thin lips pull into a tight, bloodless frown, and he lifts his jaw.

“Is that how you really feel?” he asks.

Silence, for a long time. The two friends stand across from each other in the tiny kitchen. The leaking tap drip drips into the sink and in the other room the television blares. “I just can’t see you two working out. Not really.” Dean says, very quietly.

Adam nods stiffly. “Well thank you for being honest,” he says. “But you’re wrong.”

Dean stays quiet. He looks down at his toes, at the small droplets of soapy water on the bleached tiles. He hears Adam turn and walk out of the kitchen and down the hall with clipped, angry footsteps. The front door opens and closes. Adam doesn’t slam the door. Surprisingly, for all his colour and brightness, Adam isn’t the type to flounce. When he’s angry, when he’s hurt, he goes very quiet and he retreats.

Dean feels like an asshole.

 

* * *

 

That evening, Dean stands firm. Orlando _is_ a jerk. Adam’s just too blinded by love to see that. And what kind of friend abandons you the second they hook up with someone? Adam’s a fair-weather friend and Dean’s better off without him.

 

* * *

 

The following day, Dean is filled with regret. He wishes he’d said nothing, why couldn’t he have just bitten his tongue? If Adam had just given him some time to let it sink in he could have come up with a better response.

 

* * *

 

Two days in and Dean opens his door to hear movement on the floor below. He hears Adam talking and Orlando’s obnoxious, carefree laugh. Feeling a rising anger, Dean closes his door and spends the rest of the day sulking in front of the television. The both of them can just go to hell.

 

* * *

 

Three days in and Dean misses Adam. It’s so quiet down below he worries that Adam’s moved out already. He knocks round 4B to see if she knows anything. As he’s waiting for an answer, Adam steps out into the hall dressed in jogging bottoms and carrying a laundry hamper. They avoid eye contact and perform the dance of the stairwell to gracelessly shuffle past each other. Not a word is spoken between them.

 

* * *

 

On the fourth day Dean texts Adam, _I’m sorry._ No response. He switches to his work sim to stop himself from checking every ten minutes.

 

* * *

 

The fifth day is a shameful blur of eating and drinking. Dean puts a stop to this when he realises it’s two in the morning and he’s polished off two bottles of wine and the better part of a chocolate gateaux.

 

* * *

 

On the sixth day he reconnects his personal sim. He has a text and a missed phone call; both from Aidan. _Russell’s having a flat warming this Sat, was wondering if u wanted to come with?_

With the lack of work and social isolation, Dean’s beginning to sink down a very dark and very dank hole. He decides a house warming is just what he needs.

 _Sure_ , he texts back. A few minutes later his phone vibrates again; another message.

_Brilliant, I’ll come by urs about 8, it’s at ur end of town. Mates yeah?_

Dean wishes bitterly that those last two words hadn’t needed to be said. He supposes he should be grateful; at least he won’t be lead on by any sense of false hope. And he could always do with more friends, this past week alone only emphasises that. But Christ if those two words aren’t damning.

 _Mates_ , _see u then_. Dean texts back, effectively sealing his fate.

 

* * *

 

The flat warming, as it turns out, is situated in the luxury new-build block of flats three streets over from Dean’s.

The place is gorgeous, nearly twice the size of Dean’s with marble countertops, a guest bedroom (currently being used as a coat dump) and an open plan living room with a wall of windows and a balcony.

They arrive half an hour late (Aidan’s insistence, only losers show up on time) and the living room is already fairly full of people, none of which are familiar to Dean. Apparently Jimmy from the Pogue is due to show his face at some point but Aidan’s not certain if he’ll actually turn up. Dean remembers that shark grin of Jimmy’s and isn’t so certain that’s a bad thing.

They circle the room, Aidan clutching a potted fern and Dean with his card and a bottle of wine, until they find what looks to be a gift table. There are at least two other potted plants sitting there, Aidan and Russell’s friends seem to lack imagination. Dean fusses with his card, not sure where to put it until he rests it against Aidan’s fern, letting the thick green leaves partially obscure it from view. He’d felt extremely self-conscious when he’d filled it in, not least because he was addressing it to a man he’d never met before in his life, but he’d felt bad coming to the party completely empty handed.

As they move from the table, they’re intercepted by a young man with glasses that rest on top of a pair of prominent ears. He possesses a general air of flustered agitation that follows him around the room like a buzz of bees.

“Aidan did you break my Lando when you were moving things into the bedroom and then put him back on the shelf hoping I wouldn’t notice? Because his head fell off and he definitely wasn’t like that before the move.”

Dean blinks at the stranger; he understood exactly half of that sentence. He glances at Aidan who is giving one of his biggest grins, the kind that shows off both rows of perfectly white teeth. “Of course not,” Aidan says and he’s obviously lying.

“That was vintage mint condition you bastard, you’re paying for it.” The stranger pulls Aidan into a warm hug and smacks him on the back. He turns to Dean curiously. “Is this…?”

“Dean, meet Russell. Russell, this is my friend Dean.”

“The one you’ve—“

“Yes that one.”

“Oh.” Russell looks briefly confused. “Oh!” He smiles suddenly and takes Dean’s hand then grips Dean’s bicep, giving it a friendly squeeze. “It’s nice to finally meet you!”

“I brought wine,” Dean holds the bottle out.

“I like you already.” Russell takes the bottle, holding it up long enough to read the label, White, Bordeaux. “Good taste too. Right, well there’s drinks and food in the kitchen, I’ll be with you in a sec I’ve just got to see what…” whatever Russell has to see to, they never find out as he drifts away, his sentence left hovering unfinished in the air.

“What was all that about?” Dean asks Aidan in a stage whisper. Aidan shrugs.

“Star Wars… I don’t know. Geek stuff. He collects things.”

“No I meant the… weirdness.” Dean gestures in the air. Whatever had transpired between Russell and Aidan, what was _that_ about? Aidan looks at him and either he’s playing dumb or he really is that dense.

“I’m not following.”

Dean sighs. “Nevermind,” he says.

Whatever that mystery exchange had been about plays on Dean’s mind throughout the night and he finds himself feeling extremely out of place in the party. Not least because he has no idea what he’s really doing here. It’s not a date; it’s a friend thing, that much has been made clear by Aidan’s repeated use of the words ‘friend’ and ‘mate’. But it feels like a date. Every time Dean is introduced to somebody, he is introduced in connection to Aidan, never on his own.

He doesn’t know how to act; Aidan’s the only one he knows at the party, so naturally his instinct is to stick close to him. But doing so makes them feel distinctly coupley, especially when Aidan’s involved in animated conversation with somebody that Dean couldn’t possibly relate to so he finds himself standing by Aidan’s elbow, clutching his drink and smiling when appropriate but otherwise remaining completely mute.

He feels like a tagalong girlfriend, and he hates it.

Purposefully detaching himself from Aidan’s side, as much to prove a point to himself as to anyone else, Dean drifts through the various crowds who are either chatting or dancing listlessly to the music, until he finds Russell standing to the side, talking to a particularly stunning girl with dark curly hair and a wide, open smile. Her name is Lenora, he discovers, old housemate of Aidan and Russell’s in university, lives in London and is visiting specially for the weekend. She loves Dean’s accent, thinks it’s the cutest thing and much nicer than the usual around these parts (a comment for which Russell elbows her in the ribs and let’s out an indignant squawk that they’re not all that bad).

“You seem like Aidan’s type,” Lenora is telling him as she sips her cocktail and nods appreciatively. “Cute, blond. Small but well built.”

“Lenora…” Russell starts with a sigh while Dean stands stricken and silent and hastily polishing off the last of his drink.

“What?” Lenora asks somewhat defensively. “Why’re you ‘Lenoraing’ me? I’m not even being inappropriate right now.” She rests a hand over Dean’s, squeezing. “You know I’m not calling you short, because you aren’t, just, you know, in comparison to him.”

“We’re ah, we’re not together. Just friends.” Dean tries to smile. Lenora’s delicate brow furrows and she seems genuinely confused.

“You aren’t? But I thought…”

“They’re just friends,” Russell says through gritted teeth. “That’s what I was _telling_ you if you’d just _listened_.”

“Oh, sorry, I just assumed because… sorry Dean.”

Dean shakes his head, still with that fixed smile. He holds up his empty glass, indicating he needs a top up, then he makes his excuses and detaches himself from the two of them, ignoring Russell’s look of sympathy as he does so.

As he walks away through the crowd to the kitchen, he overhears Lenora ask Russell plaintively, “Ok tell me what I’ve stuck my foot in this time.”

In the kitchen, Aidan’s nowhere to be found, but Dean does bump into Jimmy who seems to have set up shop by the drinks table. He’s knocking back straight whiskeys with an empty bottle next to him and another on the go. He’s drunk, but not half as drunk as he should be by all accounts and purposes.

“If it isn’t my old Kiwi mate!” Jimmy exclaims, throwing an arm around Dean’s shoulders and pulling him close. “Long time no see, Deano. What, my coffee not good enough for you now, is it?”

Dean thinks that Jimmy’s joking. He’s at least eighty nine percent certain that Jimmy’s joking, with his toothy mouth and his thick, dark eyebrows and his louder than life voice. But there’s just that small percentage of doubt that has Dean nervous and on edge. He just doesn’t know how to take Jimmy, not at all.

“How’re you doing?” he asks as he attempts to maneuverer himself out from under Jimmy’s arm and find himself some more wine.

“I’m grand Deano, just grand. How about yourself?”

“I’m good.” There’s no wine in the fridge, just a few bottles of white, including the one he brought, sitting out on the counter. Not relishing the thought of drinking room temperature white, he sticks a bottle in the fridge and grabs himself a beer. It’s probably not the best idea, how is it the saying goes? _Beer before wine and you’re fine, wine before beer makes you queer_ … something to that effect. But the fact is, right now Dean just doesn’t care, he needs to be much drunker.

“I’ll tell you I’m glad you and Aidan sorted your shit out in the end he wasn’t half doing my head in with all his moping around.”

“He was moping?”

Jimmy nods his head as he pours himself another two fingers of whiskey. “Like a miner during Thatcherism.” He knocks back the whiskey and sucks on his teeth, considering Dean. “He wouldn’t tell me what it was about like. Lover’s tiff I figured.”

“Something like that,” Dean mutters as he looks around the kitchen. The marble worktops are laden with snack food and there’s a pot of chili simmering away on the brand new stove with a stack of empty bowls and spoons beside it.

The longer Dean spends in this flat, the more dishevelled his own home feels. It’s different to Richard’s. Richard’s place isn’t real, it’s one of those show homes, it’s the cover of a glossy magazine; beautiful to look at but there’ nothing to it.

This place, Russell’s place, it’s _real_ , Dean can imagine living here, he can imagine being happy here.

He hates it.

“I know what you need, Deano.” Dean’s attention is drawn back to Jimmy to find that he is pointing at him with one eye squinted shut. “Shots, and lots of them.”

 _Well_ , Dean thinks, _why the hell not?_

* * *

 

An indeterminate amount of time later, when Dean finally pries himself away from Jimmy, the world’s worst influence, his mind feels thick and sluggish from the alcohol and nothing is quite where it should be.

When he reaches for the wall, it’s a few inches to the left of where he thought it was and he staggers as the room sways around him.

All of a sudden, the party is a little too much for him, there are too many people, too much music, too much of everything. He needs to find a corner to curl up in. He needs Aidan.

“Have you seen Aidan?” he asks a couple by the door. “Tall guy, dark curly hair, Irish.” They shake their heads and step away.

“Excuse me,” Dean asks another group, they’re too busy dancing to hear him.

He goes from group to group, asking each of them in turn, _have you seen my friend? I really need to find him just so I can…_

Dean stops.

He’s found Aidan. He sees him standing across the room, talking to a girl with straight, black hair and a laugh that carries even to Dean.

It’s not even that Aidan’s being particularly forward with the girl, because he’s not. They’re not standing there with their tongues down each other’s throats, Aidan’s not coming onto her, he’s barely even close to here. She stands by the gift table while Aidan leans against the wall, swinging his glass as he speaks.

It’s just how relaxed they are. How easy and open Aidan is.

That’s what does it for Dean. In his drunken, dizzy stupor, that’s the thing that makes him feel suddenly nauseous, his stomach rolling with hurt and embarrassment and the cold ugly truth.

Dean doesn’t belong here.

He sees that now.

Suddenly feeling embarrassingly close to crying, Dean turns and starts worming his way through the crowds. He brushes shoulders aside and mutters _excuse me_ , and _sorry_ , and _please just let me through_ , until he’s finally on the opposite side of the room.

He can’t quite remember which is the door to the guest room but he finds it through trial and error and then he sets about rummaging for his coat from the pile on the bed with nothing but the dim bedside light to help him.

He’s left the door open, the party blaring on behind him. So when he hears it click shut and the music suddenly muffles to a quiet background drone, Dean looks up. He turns, clutching a scarf and a denim jacket (neither of which are his) in his hands.

Aidan’s leaning against the closed door, the buzz from the party still clinging to him like a second skin.

“You’re leaving?”

Dean returns to his search, setting aside the scarf and jacket. “Yeah.”

Aidan steps across the room until he’s standing beside him and he takes Dean’s hands, pulling him away from the coats.

“Why?”

Bizarrely, Dean feels a laugh bubble up. “I’m really drunk,” he tells Aidan.

“Don’t go.” Aidan puts on the most ridiculous pout that Dean has ever seen, he thinks that maybe Aidan’s a little drunk too. “Stay, please.”

“I shouldn’t,” says Dean. “It’s weird.”

“Please,” Aidan says again. He’s still holding Dean’s hands and is rubbing small circles over the backs of them with his thumbs.

Dean looks at Aidan and thinks about the first time he kissed him outside the hospital. He thinks that he knows that face now, enough that he knows how to hold his head when they kiss so they don’t bump noses, his lips still hold the memory of Aidan’s.

He thinks that he would very much like to kiss Aidan again.

And so he does.

Aidan’s lips are soft and warm and he tastes of wine. Aidan returns the kiss, his hands move to Dean’s arms, gripping him at the crooks of his elbows.

They pull away and Aidan’s staring at him, his lips slightly parted and his eyes wide and searching.

“Sorry,” Dean says. “Like I said, really drunk.”

Aidan doesn’t let go.

He leans in and he kisses Dean again, soft and tentative, his tongue darts out and Dean’s lips part, letting him in. They stand there in the middle of Russell’s guest room surrounded by coats with a dubstep remix of Taylor Swift of all things playing in the other room and it’s fucking magic.

Aidan’s hands move up Dean’s arms, tracing over his biceps until he cups the back of his neck, his fingertips brushing over the tiny hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck. The kiss deepens and Dean steps closer, feeling the warmth of Aidan’s chest through his thin shirt pressed against his own. He can feel his own heart beating hard against his ribs and he wonders if Aidan can feel it, if he can hear the rapid thud thud thud of blood rushing through his veins. He feels suddenly light headed and it’s not just because of the alcohol.

“Christ.” Aidan breaks the kiss again and sucks in a shaky breath. “Fuck.”

Dean lowers his head. He presses a kiss to Aidan’s neck, to the patch of stubble that he must have missed when shaving. He presses another, then another, following the line of his jaw. He doesn’t want this to end.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Aidan pushes Dean back enough to look him in the eyes, still holding him, fingers curling over the muscle and bone of Dean’s shoulders. “What’re we doing here?”

“Kissing,” Dean replies, isn’t obvious? “We’re just friends, who kiss?” He tries to meet Aidan’s eyes but his gaze keeps getting drawn down to the pink of Aidan’s lips, the way they twitch and part with each breath. He leans in and kisses him again and Aidan kisses back. Then he pulls back with a groan.

“Fuck Dean. I like you. I like you so much, like I’m going mad here.” He heaves a sigh and presses his mouth to the top of Dean’s head, resting it there. “But I don’t want to fuck this up. I don’t want to rush it,” he says against Dean’s hair.

Dean says nothing. He just leans into Aidan, breathing in the scent of him, cigarette smoke and the faint hint of aftershave. He winds his hands around Aidan’s waist, holding them at the small of his back and he can feel the soft material of Aidan’s shirt under his fingers and he doesn’t want to lose it.

“Can we go slow?” Aidan asks, brushing Dean’s neck so his thumb dips just below the collar of his shirt.

Dean nods. Slow is good, slow is something at least.

Aidan breathes out a relieved sigh. “Do you want to go back out there?”

“No.” Dean shakes his head. “But I don’t want to go home either.” Going home means leaving Aidan and being alone in his empty flat.

“Come on then.” Aidan steps away and suddenly there’s cold air between them. He takes Dean’s hand and drags them to the bed and he lies down, pulling Dean with him. They’re still wearing their shoes and it’s cramped as they try to find a position around the pile of coats, but soon enough, they’re lying on their sides facing each other and Aidan’s arm is draped over Dean’s waist, stroking his side gently with tiny, tickling touches.

Dean looks at Aidan and Aidan looks at Dean and he smiles.

“Hey,” says Aidan.

“Hey.”

“We can just lie here ‘til you’ve sobered up a bit.”

Dean nods his head, his eyes drifting shut. “Ok,” he says. Their shins are pressed together, sharing body warmth through their jeans. Even when lying down, when Dean closes his eyes the room spins and sways like he’s on a boat and he knows he’s going to feel like death come morning.

The bed shifts and Dean hears the rustle of clothing as Aidan brings his arm that’s trapped between them up, he rests it against Dean’s collarbone under his shirt and Dean can feel every one of those digits like they’re charged with electricity.

Soon, Dean drifts off to sleep. He’s not sure when, but at some point Aidan must have fallen asleep too because when he wakes up, it’s dark and the pile of coats have all but depleted and there’s a woollen throw draped over the both of them. Dean feels a moment of panic thinking that everyone at the party must have seen them lying here together when they came for their coats. But as he looks at Aidan, sleeping soundly and snoring gently, Dean realises that he doesn’t actually care.

Wriggling closer to Aidan, he pulls Aidan’s slack arm further around himself and he closes his eyes, letting himself fall back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tswift dubstep remix is a real thing - i knew you were trouble spaarkey remix on youtube. foreshadowing? we just don't know


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving day and some uncomfortable questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of you are growing anxious about the warnings in this fic and when they'll be coming and I know I said that would likely happen in chapter 12 but truth is I done fucked up and misjudged the length of this chapter so none of that's happening yet. I will still warn for all that in notes when it comes though!

Dean’s sixteen when he first kisses another boy. It’s also when he gives his first hand job. It’s sloppy and self-conscious, he’s barely certain what _he_ likes never mind what anyone else would like.

“Come on,” Tim keeps saying. He glances through a crack in the bathroom window like he’s expecting Dean’s parents home any minute even though they’ve only just left and it always takes them at least two hours to get to and from town. “No not like that, come on we gotta’ be quick.”

The rushing flusters Dean and he loses any kind of rhythm.

Tim lives across the road from him. He’s two years older and starting uni that coming summer. To a sixteen year old that’s the epitome of cool and he hadn’t believed his luck that anyone like Tim could be interested in him. He still doesn’t quite believe it now, even though he’s kneeling there with his hand down Tim’s shorts trying (fruitlessly) to get him off.

“It’d be easier if you’d let me remove these,” Dean says as he plucks at the unbuttoned fly of Tim’s shorts.

Tim sighs in frustration at Dean’s cack-handed attempts until he eventually nudges Dean’s hand aside and takes himself in a firm grip. “You’re doing it wrong, like this.” He pumps himself with firm, even strokes, his thumb hooked over the head. “You sure you won’t let me put it in your mouth?”

Wordlessly, Dean shakes his head and Tim sighs and continues.

Dean watches, enthralled. It’s the first time he’s ever seen anyone’s cock other than his and his brother’s and he’s fairly certain that neither of those count. He bites his lip as Tim gets closer and he glances up, watching the way Tim’s lips clench into a thin line and the tendons in his neck bunch and quiver. He wonders if that’s how he looks when he jacks off too.

Suddenly, Tim’s mouth open’s in a small ‘oh’ and he comes without warning directly on Dean’s face.

“Jesus, Fuck!” Dean flinches back, some of it going in his eye. “What did you do that for?”

“That’s what they do in the movies,” Tim shrugs as he tucks himself away and re-laces his shorts. “Sorry,” he says, even though he doesn’t sound very sorry.

Dean pulls himself to his feet and starts trying to rinse his stinging eye out at the sink. All in all, his first experience wasn’t brilliant. Largely disillusioning, really.

“Hey Dean,” Tim says and Dean turns to look at him, water dripping from his lashes. “You tell anyone about this and I’ll kill you.”

“Whatever,” Dean grumbles, turning back to the sink. He stares at himself in the mirror, at his red, bloodshot eye and the strings of come congealing in his hair and he thinks to himself this isn’t really anything he’d _want_ to tell anyone about anyway.

The lesson Dean learns from Tim is to _always_ keep your eyes closed.

Dean’s first love is Jared. They meet in college when Jared’s family moves to Auckland from Australia.

Jared loves fitness. He’s always talking about the gym and using terms like reps and ‘crushing it’ and Dean has only a vague idea what he’s going on about half the time. But he’s sweet and kind and sometimes when they’re alone Jared interlocks their fingers and they just sit there quietly holding hands. With all the work he does at the gym, Jared has a body to die for and his come tastes vaguely of the protein shakes he’s always drinking.

Dean is Jared’s first. Since Dean barely counts Tim as anything, Dean tells Jared he’s his first too, because he is, in every way that counts.

Dean and Jared last through all of college and then when Jared leaves for uni Dean stays back in Auckland because he still hasn’t a clue what he wants to do with his life. He’s not too worried, people have always told him some of the most interesting people still don’t know at thirty. He and Jared stay in touch and keep the long distance thing going. There’s a lot of change in those years, you’re barely the same person from one month to the next. The fact that they lasted as long as they did is testament to how much they loved (or thought they loved) each other.

In the summer of second year, on the afternoon of Jared’s arrival home, Dean goes all out preparing a special meal. His parents are away and he cleans the entire house twice over and lights scented candles in his room to try and chase away the pervasive smell of boy.

Jared had been distant that term, their phone calls dwindling and filled with longer periods of silence punctuated by Jared’s melancholy sighs. Dean thinks the distance is beginning to get to Jared so he has a whole week of special couple things planned, just the two of them.

When Jared arrives, he looks at the meal and the candles and he looks like he’s about to cry.

Dean feels rising panic the kind he gets when he’s done something wrong, but this time, he hasn’t a clue what it is.

“I’m sorry,” Jared tells him and Dean notices that Jared hasn’t got a case with him, no clothes, no toothbrush, nothing. “I can’t do this. I’m so sorry, Dean.”

It’s over. There’s no discussing it, nothing Dean says can change it, no matter how much he begs (and Dean begs shamelessly). Jared swears to him that there’s nobody else which in some ways makes it worse, because if it’s not someone else, then it’s Dean.

“How long have you felt this way?” Dean asks him, feeling numb.

“A while. I didn’t want to do it over the phone,” Jared says. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry. He’s said it so much, the word has lost all meaning.

“You should go.”

“Yeah,” Jared agrees.

Dean looks at him. “Now,” he says. Right now. Because Dean wants to hurt him. He can feel anger bubbling and burning his tongue like acid and he wants to hurt Jared as much as he’s hurting and he will if Jared doesn’t leave.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Just go.”

And Jared leaves. The layout of the house means that the living room is in the basement and Jared has to climb the stairs to get to the front door. Dean glares at the floorboards, feeling hot tears brimming with each of Jared’s footfalls. He doesn’t let them spill until he hears the front door and Jared’s car. Alone again, Dean breaks down.

Jared is Dean’s first heartbreak.

The lesson Dean learns from Jared is to stay guarded. That nothing lasts.

That summer Dean throws himself into forgetting Jared. He gets himself a summer job working in a hostel in the Bay of Plenty.

That’s where he meets Luke.

Luke’s a different cut to the regular stream of backpackers that pass through. He tells Dean he’s a journalist, looking for the real New Zealand to write about in his blog. Dean is more than happy to help him find it.

He follows Luke into a transient world of exploration and adventure. They spend their days on the road, jumping from hidden coves to secluded beaches, all the places the locals keep secret from the outside world.

The first time they sleep together, they’re sharing a tent out in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing but the rasp of Weta bugs in the bush and the crash of waves on a deserted shore.

As they lie there on top of their sleeping bags, with the torch tied to the tent canopy and swinging between them, Dean feels a rush of excitement and nerves. They’d fooled around before; the first night Luke spent in Dean’s hostel they’d gotten drunk in a nearby bar and had shared a sloppy kiss and a fumble. But until that night in the tent, it had all been deliciously chaste stolen glances and lingering touches. The night that they finally fucked, Dean was so eager that he had to train his thoughts carefully to keep from exploding too soon.

“I’m glad I found you,” Luke whispers into Dean’s ear after he’s climaxed. He hugs Dean close and their bodies are clammy with sweat. “I’m glad I could share this with you.”

“I love you,” Dean tells him, and then he freezes. He hadn’t meant to say it, isn’t even sure he means it. Luke is a whirlwind of excitement right when Dean needed it most and he’s thrown himself in with everything he has. The memory of Jared still sits on his peripheral like an unpleasant thorn but when he’s with Luke he can forget that it’s there. But love...

Luke’s arms tighten around him and he kisses his neck. “You’re amazing,” he says.

By the end of the summer, Luke’s due to go back home to Wales. It’s something they’d been avoiding right up until the end. Dean wishes their bubble of backpacking could last forever, but soon, their time is up.

“Come with me,” Luke suggests as he sorts through his backpack, leaving most things in the ‘to bin’ pile with only a select few items making it back home with him.

“Are you sure?” Dean asks because it’s only been a few months. Some wild and intense few months, but still… “I mean really. Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Luke shrugs. He looks so confident with his tailored goatee and slick back hair. “Why not?”

Luke. Dean could write a book on the lessons he learns from Luke.

* * *

 

The problem with decisions made the night before is that they never seem so brilliant come morning.

Dean wakes up filled with regret.

Regret over drinking so much, regret over crashing in a virtual stranger’s house, regret over what may or may not have happened with Aidan.

And nausea. A lot of nausea. So much nausea.

Sunlight streams in from the window, warming the sheets. He holds his hand up and splays his fingers, twirling them round and round and casting shadows over the pillows. He’s groggy enough that the action fascinates him for a full five minutes before he realises that he’s alone in the bed. He’s not sure about what the connotations of that could mean.

Had Aidan awoken with the same feeling of regret as Dean? Had he taken one look at him and bolted so as to avoid any awkward early morning exchanges?

He can hear life outside of the guest room. The bang of pots and pans and the smell of brewing coffee and frying bacon. There’s a high female laugh and the deep guttural rumble of a voice that is unmistakably Aidan’s. At least he hasn’t fled the apartment altogether.

Feeling wholly unprepared for what to expect, Dean rolls off the bed and shuffles his way to a wall mounted mirror where he rubs his face and attempts to put some order back to his sleep ruffled hair. He looks about as good as he feels.

Wandering out into the living room and through into the kitchen, he finds Aidan and Lenora sitting at the kitchen table while Russell busies himself with cooking the breakfast. The place is spotless with a mountain of empty bottles piled in a recycling bin in the corner. Dean gets the distinct impression that the others have been awake for quite some time already.

Lenora sits facing the doorway and so she’s the first to see him when he makes his way cautiously inside.

“Good morning, sunshine!” she beams with a smile that is much too bright and much too perky for this time of day. She reminds him vaguely of Adam which isn’t a thought he wants to be having right now.

Dean averts his gaze almost like she _is_ the sun, too bright to look at directly. He takes a seat beside Aidan, sinking gratefully down and resting his head in his hands.

“Morning,” Aidan says around a mouthful of toast, his tone is warm like he’s happy to see him, that’s definitely a plus. Aidan looks surprisingly good for someone who’s still in the same clothes from last night and sporting a good head of bed hair. “Coffee?”

“Please.” Dean nods into his hands.

It’s Lenora who jumps up to grab him a mug.

“Did you guys see Jimmy last night?” she asks as she pours a mug for Dean and tops up her own. “He was hi-lar-ious.”

“He drank all my whiskey,” Russell grumbles as he flips a rasher of sizzling bacon. “All of it! All on his own.”

“Not _entirely_ on his own,” admits Dean, embarrassed.

Russell glances at him and Lenora laughs, setting his coffee in front of him. “You were doing shots with Jimmy last night weren’t you,” she says, clearly delighted. “No wonder you were so gone!”

“I was saving that whiskey.” Russell turns mournfully back to his bacon.

“I’ll buy you some more.”

“Nah mate,” Aidan slaps a hand on his shoulder. Dean tries not to jump too obviously at the contact. “Russell’s just being a misery, you’re fine.” He leans in close to Dean and more quietly asks, “Did you sleep ok?”

“I think so. Mostly. You?”

“Like a babe. So I was thinking, maybe we could have a bit of a chat later? Just to talk about things.”

“Things,” Dean repeats, his brain is moving far too slow. “Yeah, sure.”

“Great.” Smiling happily, Aidan squeezes his shoulder and reaches for another slice of toast.

Dean catches Lenora watching the two of them from behind her coffee mug, her lips frozen in a sappy grin and he clears his throat, pulling his own mug closer to him and feeling suddenly like he’s trapped between plexiglass slides and being examined under a microscope.

* * *

 

They have their talk later when Aidan’s out on Russell’s balcony having a sneaky smoke.

Dean feels decidedly more human as he leans against the railings and looks out over the city. They’re high enough that they can see over the tops of the nearby houses and Dean has to admit, it’s quite a view. The sun is out and it makes the city seem brighter and happier. The wind’s still a bit nippy and he shrugs his jacket tighter around himself.

Beside him Aidan leans against the wall, hip cocked and blowing a lazy stream of smoke downwind.

“I didn’t plan on last night happening,” he says.

“Neither did I,” admits Dean.

“I don’t regret it though, not really.” Aidan smiles ruefully and flicks ash over the railing. “I’m not so good at the whole friend thing.”

“Neither am I,” says Dean again. “I guess.”

“So what I said last night, about going slow. Do you want to?”

Last night Dean was all for it. He would have said anything just to get the chance to kiss Aidan again. For that very reason, he supposes, it’s a very good thing they never went any further. But today. In the light of day and sobriety, it’s not such a sure thing.

He’s still not sure where Aidan stands on everything and he’s finding it difficult reading him.

“That depends,” Dean glances over his shoulder at Aidan. “Are you saying you’re fine with what I do now? Is it suddenly not an issue?”

Aidan shrugs and he scratches his chin, then chews on his lower lip thoughtfully. “I’ve been doing a lot of research,” he admits.

“Research?” Dean quirks a brow.

“Well, I’ve looked online. I googled it.”

“Oh Christ.” Dean looks back out over the city. “I dread to think… Ninety nine of what you read on there was probably rubbish.”

“Yeah I figured.” Aidan grins. “But I found some stuff that wasn’t too bad… and I don’t know. I think I could be ok with it.  I mean it’s just business right?”

“Right,” Dean says, though he’s still not certain. Roles reversed, he isn’t sure he’d be ok with it. “Do you have questions?”

“Maybe.” Aidan nods his head and takes a drag on his cigarette. “A few,” he says as he exhales. “I mean you’re safe, right?”

“The safest. Regular check-ups. The works.” Dean eyes him pointedly. “Are you?”

“Good point. And yeah, I am. How many ah… how many people do you see?”

“I put a cap on seven regulars, usually it’s five or six but at the moment…” Dean pauses, he doesn’t suppose Aidan particularly wants or needs to know the ins and outs of his current client crisis. “At the moment it’s less.”

“Ok... how much do you charge?” Aidan holds up a hand. “Wait no stop sorry, that’s really rude. Christ I’d be pissed if you asked me how much I earned. Ignore that.” Aidan pushes away from the wall and leans against the railings next to Dean, he can feel the warm pressure of Aidan's arm right up against his own. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

Dean can’t help but laugh. “You mean this wasn’t already personal?”

“No but I mean more to do with you, not what you do.”

Dean can feel the beginning tendrils of nerves rising. “Go on,” he says.

“How’d you get into it? Like what made you decide that that was for you?”

“I don’t know. What made you decide serving coffee was for you?”

“Yeah but I just fell into that. What you do, it’s not really the kind of thing you fall into, you know?”

“Mmm,” Dean presses his lips together and watches the passing traffic below, his fingers clenching and unclenching. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” There’s an edge to his voice, he’s not inclined to hide it. Speaking candidly, he’s getting a little tired of having to answer for what he chooses to do, regardless of how cute Aidan may be or how good he may smell.

“Hey,” Aidan says softly and touches a hand to Dean’s elbow. “Come on don’t be like that, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“No?” Dean smiles at him tightly. He stands straight, drawing his elbow free. He feels the sudden need to get away, like he's overstayed his welcome or Aidan's getting too familliar. Whatever the reason, he needs to be someplace that isn't there. “Hey I’ve gotta’ go,” he says as he pulls the sliding door open. “I’ve got to say goodbye to my friend. Did I tell you he was moving out? Because he is. He hates me now.”

“Dean…” Aidan sounds pleading as he turns, flicking his cigarette over the balcony.

“Good party, yeah?” Dean says, already walking backwards. “I’ll call you.”

* * *

 

Dean walks home alone.

When he gets there, there’s a white rental van parked out front and the lobby door is propped open with the heavy potted fern that normally sits in the hallway.

Dean bypasses the pot and steps indoors to hear the sound of heavy footprints tramping down the stairs. He steps aside, waiting for whoever is coming down to pass him by.

It’s Orlando, weighed down with an armful of sealed boxes. Orlando smiles brightly when he sees him.

"Deano! Adam's just upstairs."

Dean nods mutely, he lets Orlando pass then he makes his way upstairs. He finds Adam in the hallway, loaded with his own box that is brimming with kitchen equipment, there’s a ladel hanging precariously over the side. The both of them freeze for a moment when they see each other, neither certain how to act, then Adam gives him a stiff smile and tries to inch his way past.

“Adam,” Dean stops him. “Can we talk?”

Adam sighs. “Christ Dean, not today. I’m stressed out of my mind and I just can’t deal with you today.”

It may be deserved, but it still stings and Dean shrinks back.

Seeming to realise this, Adam’s expression softens into something a little more sympathetic and less strained. “I didn’t mean that quite how it sounded… oh bloody hell. You know how I am with stress. And they do say moving house is one of the biggest stressors out there… I’ve already taken poor Orlando’s head off at the shoulders twice today. We’ll talk, just… not today.”

“It’s fine,” Dean says. And because he really would like to extend the first olive branch, he ignores his hangover and asks, “Do you want a hand?”

Adam’s face crumples with relief. Dean’s frightened he might actually start crying. “Please,” says Adam. “That would be wonderful.”

Between the three of them, they make short work of the boxes. The couch and the bed are a little more tricky and involve a lot of heavy lifting, a lot of careful manoeuvring, and a hell of a lot of shouting. But by mid-afternoon, they find themselves standing in the middle of Adam’s empty living room, sweaty and exhausted, but triumphant.

“It feels so strange,” Adam says, looking around the empty shell of the room with melancholy. “It looks almost big without all my crap in it.”

“Still not sure how you managed to fit all you did in here,” Orlando marvels. He has a hand draped around Adam’s waist and Adam has his head resting against Orlando’s shoulder. The two of them look so at ease with each other, like being affectionate is just something that comes naturally to them.

“I’m very good at tetris.” Adam stoops to pick up the very last of the boxes filled with his framed photographs. Sitting on top of the pile is Dean’s picture of the docks at sunrise. “I’ll just take this down and then we’re done! You two play nice.” Adam points between them as he leaves.

Orlando laughs and Dean scoffs, however, once Adam has left the room, an uneasy silence descends between them.

“Thanks for helping out, mate,” Orlando volunteers. “Really good of you.”

Dean shrugs. He turns to Orlando with what he hopes is a measuring stare, the knowledge that he'd just helped his friend pack up and move out of his life sitting heavy on his shoulders. “Take care of him,” he tells him. “If you hurt him, I won’t hesitate in killing you.”

Orlando smiles, which isn’t exactly the reaction Dean was hoping for, but what can you do. “Counting on it, buddy.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked you what happened and you said there'd been a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies (again) for how long coming this update was, I hope people haven't given up on this!
> 
> As promised, prior warning, this chapter is where the non-con warnings come into effect. There's no actual non-con but there's elements of it. I didn't want to just blindside people with that, it's always shitty when that kind of stuff sneaks up on you in fic.

Dean’s in a taxi on his way to Ian, _the Great and Powerful’s_ when an ambulance passes them in the street.

He doesn’t think anything of it until he spots it again, parked outside Ian’s apartment block with the blue lights flashing. There is a small crowd of looky-lous hovering by the doors.

“Oh oh,” says his cabby as he pulls over. “That doesn’t look good.”

Dean hands him the fare and climbs out. Frowning, he walks towards the ambulance and joins the crowd.

“What’s going on?” he asks a young man beside him.

The man shrugs. “Old guy on the fifth floor I think. Heart attack.”

Ian lives on the fifth floor. _Shit,_ Dean thinks. What’s he going to do for money? And then he feels guilty and callous and hopes the guy’s ok.

He watches as the paramedics wheel Ian out on a stretcher with an oxygen mask strapped over his nose and mouth whilst one pumps air into it manually. He’s conscious but his skin is ashen and his eyes are vague and bloodshot. Dean’s never seen him look so old or close to death and it frightens him. Ian has always been such a larger than life character. _I am not old,_ he would tell Dean with a dramatic sweep of his long, thin fingers, _I am seasoned, like good whiskey._

Dean hovers halfway between stepping forward and fading into the back of the crowd. He’s not sure if he should say something, but then, what if his face were the last face for Ian ever to see. Would he even want that?

Ian’s eyes focus on him then, seeking him out from the crowd. He reaches a hand out to him, his long fingers curling and holding onto air.

“Do you know him?” Asks one of the paramedics, noticing the gesture.

“Yes,” Dean says. “Kind of.”

He feels trapped, but he takes Ian’s hand and walks alongside the stretcher.

“Are you coming with us?” The paramedic asks as they hoist Ian’s stretcher into the ambulance. Dean looks down at Ian who nods his head mutely, his eyes are pleading.

Dean can’t think of anything he’d like to do less. “Yes,” he says.

The entire ride to the hospital, Ian does not let go of his hand.

Not until they’re pulling him out and wheeling him into the hospital and he has to.

“I’ll be right here,” Dean says even though he doesn’t want to stay. It seems that lately everything that comes out of his mouth has not been what he really wants.

He goes to the desk and tells the nurse who he is with and if she can tell him when Ian is allowed visitors. She asks if he’s family, Dean says no. She asks what his relation to Ian is and he says _I work with him. Friends. We’re friends._

Dean sits in the waiting room for a long time, long past his appointment bracket. He thinks about calling Adam, to let him know that he will be late. Then he remembers that Adam’s with Orlando, he won’t be there to notice that Dean isn’t home when he’s supposed to be and so he won’t worry.

That is a very lonely thought and Dean suddenly feels very isolated, sitting alone in the uncomfortable waiting room, waiting for a man he knows nothing about outside of how he looks when he comes.

The last time Dean was here, he was with Aidan, back when it had been easy. It should still be easy. Boy likes boy, boy kisses boy, everyone is happy. Dean doesn’t think that anything can be easy for him anymore.

“Excuse me?” the nurse at the desk asks and Dean looks up. “You can see him now.”

“Thank you,” Dean says. He follows her directions to Ian’s room. He’s in a large room with ten other beds all lined up in a row. Ian’s in the bed closest to the window and his curtains are partially drawn for privacy. When Dean steps inside he finds a nurse just finishing up taking Ian’s blood pressure.

“I’m dying,” Ian says with a dramatic sigh when he sees Dean.

“No you’re not.” Dean looks at the nurse. “He isn’t, is he?”

The nurse smiles and shakes her head. “Not yet, you old drama queen,” she prods Ian in the shoulder with familiarity and Dean guesses that they aren’t strangers, Ian and the nurse.

“We’re all dying really,” says Ian. “You are. He is.” He holds out his long fingers to Dean, splaying them like a fan. “Come closer, darling. Don’t be shy.”

Dean glances at the nurse but she’s already packing up and drawing the curtain behind her, giving them complete privacy. Dean steps closer to the bed and pulls up a chair.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks. Ian is old but he hadn’t realised that he was ill.

“It’s my heart,” says Ian. “It’s too large for my own good. A regular bleeding heart.”

Dean’s not sure whether Ian’s being serious or if it’s just a play on words so he stays quiet.

“I’m sorry darling, for ruining our appointment. I’ll still pay you.”

“You don’t have to,” Dean tells him even though he needs the money.

Ian grunts and waves his hand. He’s pale; his skin looks grey. He’s always had deep wrinkles; they have always reminded Dean of an old oak tree, strong and distinguished. Now they just make his skin look paper thin, like it could tear so easily. “Thank you for waiting for me. And for coming with me, it was very good of you; you’re a good man Dean.”

Dean shrugs it off, he doesn’t feel so good, it was what he was supposed to do, not what he wanted to do. “Do you have any family I could call for you?”

“No,” Ian shakes his head with a weary smile. “No family, no friends. I’m an old man and they’ve all passed on.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says. It sounds horrible, being all alone. But Ian doesn’t look particularly sad.

“No need, I might be alone but I’m not a lonely old man. They’re all still here.” He points to his head.

Dean looks at Ian who smiles back at him. “I should probably go, I need to go home. Will you be ok?”

“The nurses will take care of me, don’t you worry.”

“Ok.” Dean stands.

“Dean?” Ian says and Dean turns, one hand on the curtain. “I’m going to be going away for a while, I think.”

 _Shit_ , Dean thinks. “Really?” he says aloud. “Anywhere in particular?”

“Bermuda, I think. To start off. There’s a lot I haven’t seen yet.” He pats his chest over his heart. “I am reminded I don’t have that much time left.”

Dean nods. He smiles and he says to Ian. “I hope you have a good time.”

“You should come,” says Ian with a twinkle in his eye.

Dean laughs, he doesn’t for a second think that Ian is serious. “Another time maybe,” he says. “Goodbye, Ian.”

“So long, darling.”

Dean draws the privacy curtains shut behind him.

* * *

 

Dean almost goes to the Pogue Mahone after leaving the hospital. He gets as far as the traffic lights at the corner when he hesitates. It isn’t really on the way; in fact it’s right on the other side of town. But something about his visit with Ian has given him the strong compulsion to see Aidan. But now, he’s not so sure.

The Pogue Mahone is busy. He can see a line coming out of the front door. It’s lunch time and all the young professionals are keen to get their fix, preferring to wait rather than go to the greasy spoon down the road where the coffee cups are usually coated in an oily film of soap suds and grime (how something can be soapy and dirty at the same time is a damn near miracle).

Dean thinks about his motivations for coming here. It’d be nice to see Aidan, that’s a given. But what would he say? _I know I stormed off and haven’t called since the party but I just came from seeing a client who I’m pretty sure is dying and I think maybe I’m just really lonely so…_

It’s just not going to cut it. He’s blown it, he knows he has. He’s prickly and frayed and all of his edges are just rubbing and scratching at anyone who gets too close. Dean feels suddenly very tired and not the good kind of tired, this one’s draining and lonely. He wants to see Aidan but he also realises he doesn’t have the energy to see Aidan.

Jimmy steps through the Pogue’s front doors with a plastic crate hooked under one arm. He goes from table to table outside, scooping discarded cups and saucers into the crate. Dean watches him for a while. He flinches when Jimmy looks up and looks like he might have seen him, but Jimmy’s gaze seems to pass through Dean like he’s invisible. Then Jimmy drops one more cup into the crate with a clatter of china and he returns to the coffee shop.

Resigned, Dean turns away.

* * *

 

Dean smiles as Richard opens the door.

His smile fades when he gets a good look at Richard.

“What happened?” Dean asks, pointing to the ugly bruising under Richard’s left eye. It’s a mottled collage of blues and greens and the delicate skin is slightly puffy.

Richard shrugs and grimaces like he’d really rather not have attention drawn to it. He steps aside, letting Dean step into his spotless living room. He helps Dean shrug out of his coat and Dean lets him, watching as Richard hangs it in a closet by the door. He’s very fastidious, Dean’s noticed that, usually by the time he leaves Richard’s already fixed and remade the bed.

“Just an altercation,” Richard says. “Are you thirsty? Hungry?”

Dean shakes his head. It strikes him as odd, Richards not the type to have ‘altercations’, too pleasant, too apologetic.

“Who did you fall out with?” Dean asks. He’s not sure why he’s so curious, he just gets this feeling that maybe there’s something to this that he should know. Maybe it’s the fact that Richard still hasn’t really met his eyes always looking at the ground or at a point just over Dean’s shoulder.

“No one,” Richard says. “It’s fine. Can I kiss you?”

“You know you don’t need to ask,” Dean says and he kisses Richard. A light, gentle peck like the kind of kiss you come home to; a married couple curled up on the sofa watching midweek primetime TV and eating special fried rice from foil containers. Dean strokes a finger along Richard’s cheekbone, just beneath the bruise and Richard leans away from the touch.

“It’s really nothing,” Richard smiles an uneasy smile. He kisses Dean again. There’s an insistence to this kiss, a need for Dean to let it go, and Dean does. He closes his eyes and slides a hand up to cup the back of Richard’s head and he lets go.

Later, when they’re spent and Dean’s sitting up in bed with Richard’s head nestled in his folded lap, Dean threads fingers through Richard’s hair and smiles down at him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Richard blinks. From this angle his eyes are big and blue and his cheek bones are a sharp angle against his jawline. “I thought you agreed to let it go.”

“Only temporarily.”

“You won’t like it,” Richard says.

“Tell me.”

Richard sighs. He rubs a hand over his eyes, wincing when he forgets about the bruise. “It was Aidan,” he says.

Dean’s fingers still in Richard’s hair. “Oh,” he says. “Why did he punch you?”

“It was my fault really, I think I antagonised him. I should’ve stopped going there.”

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t go there,” Dean says. “He had no right to hit you.”

“He didn’t mean to… well he did. But it’s not his fault. Really, I think I just caught him at a bad time.”

Dean doesn’t answer. He feels anger slow burning in his gut and he chews on his lip.

“I don’t blame him. It’s an awkward situation, I know that if I was forced to pour coffee for someone I knew was paying my boyfriend to sleep with them I’d be angry about it too.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Dean says.

“Oh…” Richard frowns; he tilts his head back to look up at Dean. “I assumed he was.”

“No.” Dean shakes his head, frowning. “We’re not…” He sighs. “I don’t know. But he should never have done that, I’m sorry.”

“ _I’m_ sorry,” Richard counters.

Dean frowns down at him and he gives a sharp tug on Richard’s hair. “You’re not doing anything wrong, you know.” He chastises lightly. “Stop acting so guilty.”

“I just know how I must seem to him. To you. Some poor old lonely bastard who has to pay for human company.”

“I could take offence at that, you know,” Dean says, even though he doesn’t. He knows Richard doesn’t mean anything by it, of all the people, he knows he can trust Richard to never mean anything by it. “You don’t have to be ashamed.”

“I’m not. Not when I’m around you, anyway.” Richard takes hold of Dean’s hand. He untangles Dean’s fingers from his hair and presses them to his lips, kissing them. Then he rests Dean’s hand over his bare chest and strokes his thumb in little circles over his knuckles. “I like you, Dean. A lot. Sometimes I think that…” he trails off. Dean squeezes his fingers with his own, shushing him gently.

* * *

 

Afterwards, Dean heads straight for the Pogue Mahone. There’s a crowd of about four or five waiting but Dean barges straight past them to where Jimmy is standing behind the till.

“Where is he?” he asks.

Jimmy is briefly startled, hand stretched out in mid reach with change for a woman with a tall skinny latte.

“Not here,” Jimmy says. “Day off.”

“Where does he live?”

“Oh aye, booty call is it?”

“Jimmy,” Dean warns as the lady tuts in disapproval and takes her latte.

“I can’t go giving out my employee’s home addresses to every Tom, Dick, and Harry now can I?”

“I’m not in the mood,” Dean snaps and Jimmy actually looks mildly startled.

“I thought you Kiwis were supposed to be laid back types. Fine,” Jimmy rips a corner off a receipt and scribbles down an address then passes it over to Dean. “If he’s pissed at you for going then I never gave it to you, ok?”

* * *

 

Dean doesn’t hammer on Aidan’s door. He’s angry, but he’s not here to cause a scene.

Aidan’s smiling when he answers.

“Deano hi! What’re you doing here? Not that I’m not pleased to see you but how’d you know where I lived?”

“Jimmy told me,” Dean says. “Can I come in?”

Aidan steps aside and waves him in. He’s dressed in a Bestival tee and faded jeans with holes in the knees and a tear just below his crotch; they’re the kind of jeans you only ever wear around the house for comfort.

“It’s a mess, sorry. I wasn’t expecting company.” Aidan’s apartment is much like Aidan the person. It’s messy, yes, with a growing collection of mugs on the coffee table and a plate with a half-finished fish finger sandwich on the floor next to a well stuffed black couch. But it’s also cosy; it’s clean where it needs to be underneath the superficial clutter. There’s a picture on the mantelpiece of a group of people gathered around a dinner table for Christmas dinner. They all have the same black curly hair and dramatic brow and Dean thinks that has to be Aidan’s family, the resemblance is uncanny. There’s a zombie game paused on the television and the controller’s discarded on one side of the couch.

Aidan hastily gathers up the half eaten sandwich and the mugs and carries them through into a kitchen that’s about as small and cramped as Dean’s. “I’m actually glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure if you were going to call after the party.”

Dean feels briefly guilty. It’s not that he’d been avoiding calling Aidan it’s just that… he’d been avoiding calling Aidan. And Adam. And just about everyone. Outside of his paying clients, Dean hadn’t seen another person for over a week now.

“Why’d you punch Richard?” Dean asks, determined not to stray off topic.

Aidan had been banging around in the kitchen when it goes quiet and Aidan’s head pops round the door.

“He told you then, did he?”

“It was kind of hard to miss the great ugly bruise on his eye.”

“Fuck,” Aidan sighs. “I’m not violent or anything. It’s not like I normally go round punching people, ok?”

“You think it’s ok to punch him though?”

“No! He just… do you know how shit it is having to serve him every day? Does my head in.”

“You assaulted him,” Dean says. “You know he could press charges against you?”

Aidan looks stricken at that and he asks, wide eyed, “Is he going to?”

“I don’t know.” Dean’s tempted to say yes, maybe the fear of a criminal record would serve Aidan right, but he sighs and says, “No. I doubt it, he’s not like that.”

“Oh and you know what he’s like.” There’s definite venom there. Aidan’s lip curls and he reminds Dean of a spitting cat.

“Oh my God,” he says in disbelief. “You’re actually jealous of him, aren’t you?”

“I’m not jealous,” Aidan scowls but it’s a weak defence at best. “I just don’t like him; I think I’ve got a pretty good reason not to. I’m ok with what you do, but that doesn’t mean I have to like the assholes who pay you.”

Dean barks a harsh laugh. “You’re not ok with what I do at all.”

“Maybe I would be if you gave me a bloody chance! You’re halfway out the door every time I so much as breathe in a way you don’t like.”

“I’m not going to be judged for what I do,” Dean says, glaring. “Not by anyone.”

“I’m not judging you! Christ, Dean. You tell me I can ask questions, so I ask questions and next thing I know you’re shutting down and taking off and I don’t hear from you for days, what exactly do you want?”

Dean can’t answer. He’s just so angry, he can feel it, burning hot under his skin, flushing his cheeks and twisting his stomach in knots and nothing is how he wants it to be but he has no idea how it should be. All he knows is that he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want Aidan angry and punching Richard and asking him why he thinks that his only life option is to fuck for money. He’s not afraid, he just knows how this is going to go, how it’s always going to go and he doesn’t want to be left hanging when the bottom falls out and Aidan inevitably takes off and leaves him behind. It’s happened before, it’s happened so many times before, he’s not going to put himself through that again.

“I don’t want this,” Dean says.

“By this do you mean us?”

Dean looks at him. His silence is answer enough.

“Coward,” Aidan sneers.

When Dean leaves, he tells himself that it’s not because he’s running away.

Even though it feels a little like he’s running away.

* * *

 

When Dean misses his second month of rent, he knows shit’s getting dire. With Ben down and now Ian gone, he knows he has no choice. He’s going to have to call Manu.

Dean doesn’t trust Manu. He doesn’t trust him for a second, and so he asks Graham to come with him.

“There’s a bar down the street.” Dean tells him as they sit in Graham’s car outside Manu’s flat. “The booking’s for two hours so if I’m late or I call you, come up ok?”

“I can wait in the car if you like,” says Graham. “I don’t mind.”

But Dean tells him no, the bar should be fine.

Manu lives on the second floor with a street view. When Dean looks out the window he can see Graham’s car parked just down the road. It’s a comfort to him.

“You got someone waiting for you?” Manu asks, catching him looking.

“Yes,” Dean says, and he leaves it at that. It’s all part of the insurance; if Manu knows he’s got someone watching for signs of trouble, there are less likely to _be_ signs of trouble. Manu’s place isn’t the cleanest, but it’s not unbearable. There’s a half empty bottle of beer sitting beside a half-eaten box of noodles on the table and the air smells of stale smoke.

Dean can’t see a cash envelope on any of the table tops. It’s an annoyance. Most clients know to have those out at the ready, the less discussion or handling of money the better.

Manu walks past Dean and sits down at the table where he continues eating his noodles, slurping them noisily from the box. He watches Dean as he eats, smirking. “You want some?” he asks.

“No thanks.”

“They’re not poisoned. I promise.”

“I’m good.” Dean shrugs off his jacket and not certain where to put it, he drapes it over the back of an armchair, then he takes a seat, shifting a bundle of papers and magazines aside to clear space. He notes the topmost magazine is World of Bikes.

“Do you ride?” Dean asks, nodding to the magazine.

“Used to,” Manu says as he sucks up a noodle and smacks his lips. “’Til my ex took my bike. Bitch.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Dean says. He looks at Manu and smiles and wonders how he can get this going without outright asking. Making conversation is all well and good, but he still feels vastly unsettled here and the sooner he can get it over and done with, the better.

Manu, thankfully, seems to be on the same wavelength and after washing down his noodles by downing his beer, he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand then crosses the room to stand over Dean. He’s tall, tall enough that he towers over Dean when he’s standing, and now, sitting in the armchair, Manu is like a hulking giant. He strokes Dean’s hair, pulling thick fingers roughly through the strands and then he clenches a fist in the hair at the base of Dean’s skull, pulling his head back.

“Suck it,” Manu says.

Dean takes a wild guess as to what ‘it’ means and he unbuckles Manu’s belt and pulls down his fly, all the while staring up at those dark eyes. He loosens Manu’s jeans, pulling them low on his hips and then he pulls Manu’s cock out and he’s already half hard, growing harder. Dean reaches into his pocket, pulling out a condom.

“What’re you doing?” Manu asks. “I asked you to suck it.”

“I will,” Dean tells him. “After I’ve put this on.”

“You don’t need that. Come on.”

“Requirement. Sorry.” He smiles, but he’s not going to be dissuaded and he makes that clear as he rips open the packet and slides the rubber onto Manu’s cock. He’s hard now and nudging at Dean’s lips. Dean takes hold of the cock in one hand, bracing his other against Manu’s hips, maintaining some control over his thrusts.

Dean’s sucked a lot of cocks in his time. He doesn’t keep count, but he’s given a wide range of blowjobs. Some have been great, they’ve been perfect. Others not so much. Manu’s one of the latter. He’s impatient and abrupt. He thrusts into Dean’s mouth like it’s just a hole for him to fuck. Twice he tries to pull Dean’s hands away and twice Dean smoothly but firmly wrestles them free and keeps his grip tight on Manu’s hips. He’s not got much gag reflex, but even he chokes when Manu stabs crudely at the back of his throat and the sounds only seem to encourage Manu as he grunts and twists his fingers tightly in Dean’s hair to the point that it hurts.

“Don’t want to come yet,” Manu grunts and pulls out, immediately stripping himself of the condom. Dean climbs to his feet and wipes his mouth and is secretly grateful that part is done with.

Manu rebuttons his jeans and takes hold of Dean’s jaw and kisses him. He kisses much like the blowjob, intrusive and rough and Dean doesn’t even have to return the kiss, he doesn’t think it would matter much to Manu. He tastes like noodles and beer, grease and hops, it’s vaguely nauseating.

“What will it take to make you scream?” Manu asks. He’s still holding Dean’s jaw tight, too tight.

As Dean pries the fingers loose, it’s like he has an out of body experience. He sees himself standing in that shabby apartment, the taste of cock and latex in his mouth and still with that sick feeling in his gut that hasn’t left him all evening. He sees himself wrestling with Manu and the power balance is all wrong, he doesn’t feel safe here. He’s struggling to stay in control and it’s not right, none of it is.

Dean thinks to himself, _they don’t pay me enough for this shit._ And then he’s done. Done with this, done with pretending that his flesh isn’t crawling, he’s done with Manu.

“This isn’t happening,” Dean says suddenly and he pushes Manu’s hand away from his face, takes a step back and around the chair. “You can keep your money.”

“What the fuck?” Manu says, stepping after Dean. Dean puts the chair between them and he takes his coat.

“This isn’t working for me,” he shrugs. “Sorry.”

“Like fuck it’s not,” Manu snaps. “You don’t get to say what’s working for you; I’m the one that’s paying.”

“Not any more. I don’t want your money.” Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He’s about to call Graham, tell him he’s coming down, when Manu snatches the phone and flings it across the room. It hits the wall with a crack.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dean shouts.

Manu steps around the couch, he follows Dean as Dean backs away towards the door. Alarm bells are ringing, they’re screaming in his head and this isn’t good. Dean knows that this is bad, this is very very bad and he has to get out of here right now.

“I’ll scream,” Dean warns. “I’ll fucking fight and someone will hear.”

“No one will hear,” Manu scoffs. He reaches to grab Dean’s arm and Dean whips it away. His back hits the door, he feels the doorknob dig into his spine and he turns around to unlock it. Manu grabs him then yanks him back away from the door. Dean clings onto the handle until he’s wrenched away and he’s thrown back, stumbling over the armchair. He clambers to his feet and ducks behind the coffee table. He searches the room with his eyes for something, anything to grab. There’s a lamp on the table but it’s small, flimsy.

“Don’t be a fool,” Dean warns. “I’ve got someone outside waiting for me and they won’t hesitate in killing you.”

“Shut up,” Manu snaps. He jumps up onto the coffee table and vaults himself over the couch. Dean dodges away. He snatches anything that he can reach and flings them at Manu. Books, magazines. There’s a phone on a table by the door and he rips the cable from the wall and throws it. Manu bats it away but the receiver catches him between the eyes and he shouts, hand going to his head. Dean’s back at the door, scrabbling to unlock it. He gets the first lock done, then the second and he just needs to take the chain off when Manu grabs him by the waist and drags him away. He flings him against the wall and Dean feels a picture frame crack and fall to the floor with a shower of shattered glass. Dean swings his fists, punching Manu but he’s so small and Manu is so large he’s like a fly batting at a lion.

Dean remembers going camping on a family holiday to America once. There’d been sightings of a mountain lion and his parents had told him that if he ever saw one, he shouldn’t run. Running triggers the hunting instinct. They told him to shout at the lion. To charge it and shout and scream and wave his arms, make it look like he’s too much effort to kill and the lion will go away.

Dean thinks of that now and he looks at Manu and he opens his mouth and he screams. He bellows the first thing that comes to mind. He swears at him and he curses him. He screams loud enough that someone can hear. He screams loud enough that Manu might decide he’s not worth it and let him go. Anything that will stop Manu from doing what he’s about to do.

“Shut the fuck up!” Manu slams him back. He drives his forearm against Dean’s neck, crushing his throat and cutting off his air supply and Dean’s choking. He kicks at Manu’s shins and he claws at his arm and tears are leaking from his eyes and his vision is going white. He can’t breathe; he’s going to die here, choked by some asshole who he knew was bad news. This is how he’s going to die.

Manu lets go of him and Dean falls to the floor, gasping and wheezing. He tries to crawl out from where Manu has him cornered but Manu kicks him hard in the gut and Dean goes down. Then Manu’s dragging him, he grabs him by his hair and the back of his shirt and he drags him into a room and throws him down onto a bed. Dean rolls onto his back and as Manu’s righting himself, he kicks him hard and Manu staggers back with a surprised grunt. There’s a bedside table with an alarm clock on it. Dean grabs it then he struggles up, even as nausea rolls through him in waves.

“What the fuck are you gonna’ do with that?” Manu laughs. Dean holds it out in front of him like it’s a weapon but honestly, he has no idea. His heart is racing and he’s panicked and why did he ever think this was a good idea? But the thing is he knew it was a bad idea, but he went along with it anyway.

He opens his mouth and he tries to shout again, but it comes out hoarse and his throat flares with pain and suddenly he’s coughing and he can’t stop.

Manu just watches him. He’s amused, the bastard is actually laughing.

There’s a bang on the door hard enough that Dean can feel the reverberation in the floor. Another bang and then he hears the chain snap and the door slams open. He can’t see from the bedroom, but he sees Manu’s eyes widen almost comically.

It’s Graham. Wonderful, reliable Graham. Manu’s big, but Graham is just as big and he ploughs into Manu like a great bloody steam roller, tackling him to the floor. Dean doesn’t think anyone has ever looked so wonderful before. Graham straddles Manu and he’s raining punches. Dean sinks down onto the bed, shaking with a mixture of panic and adrenaline and so much relief. He’s still holding the alarm clock in a white knuckle grip.

Finally, after Manu is out cold, Graham stops. He sits back on his heels and he looks at Dean, knuckles bruised and bloody. “Are you ok?”

Dean nods, he doesn’t trust himself enough to speak just yet.

“Should we call the police?”

Dean shakes his head.

“No.” His voice catches painfully in his throat and he’s lost to another coughing fit. “It would cause problems for you because of…” he nods to Graham’s knuckles and Manu’s face, bruised and bloody and broken.

“I don’t care about that.”

“I’ll get someone to sort it,” Dean says hoarsely. He knows he should call the police, but then there would be questions, and then he would be stuck in the station giving endless statements and he just doesn’t want to deal with the looks and the between-the-lines answers he would have to construct and he’s already hanging by a thread. He just wants to go somewhere private where he can fall apart in safety. “I just want to go home. Please.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean wishes people would stop asking if he's ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny bit shorter this time and again, apologies for the lengths between updates. Writing seems to be going well lately though which is good yey! Thanks as always for your patience and support.

The drive back is silent. Slunk low in his seat, Dean stares out the passenger window. He watches the passing traffic, their head beams causing brief respites of light to coast over his skin. It’s raining, drops are spattered on the glass and if he relaxes his eyes enough, they refract the lights and turn into dozens of tiny little stars, oranges and reds, greens and ambers.

He’s still shaking. He can’t stop shaking, his fingers worrying and tugging at the sleeves of his coat.

Dean can feel Graham watching him with concern but he hasn’t acknowledged him yet. He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to think. He just wants to get home and sleep for at least a week.

After what feels like an eternity, they pull up outside Dean’s apartment. Dean looks up at the dark window that had once been Adam’s flat.

Graham switches off the engine and then they’re sitting in silence. Graham clears his throat. “Are you going to be ok?”

“I’ll be fine,” Dean says. “Thank you.

“Do you want me to call someone? Adam or Orlando?”

“No.” Dean shakes his head forcefully. “Don’t bother them, it’s late.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone. Look how about I come up with you and—“

“Graham please. I just want to be alone.” Dean can feel Graham watching him so he turns and gives his best, most convincing smile. The best he can manage right now. “Really I’ll be fine. Thanks for driving me. And for…” he leaves the rest unsaid, Graham can guess the rest.

Graham hesitates, he’s uncertain and Dean’s fingers are hovering over the door handle, itching to retreat. He wishes Graham would just take his word for it.

“Please, Graham,” he all but begs.

Finally, Graham nods his head. “Ok,” he says. “But if you need anything, and I mean anything, you will call me?”

“Of course,” Dean says. “Absolutely” He climbs out of Graham’s car and waves to him before shutting the door. Then he stands on the pavement and watches Graham drive away, still waving.

Only when Graham disappears round the corner does Dean let his smile crack and fall from his face, his shoulders sagging. He’s exhausted. Numb. Too tired to feel anything. Silently, he makes his way up to his empty flat.

The first thing he does is turn on all the lights, pausing to listen to the silence. It’s daft, but he feels paranoid, like there’s someone hiding behind one of the doors waiting to jump out at him.

He moves carefully from room to room, checking for the invisible intruder. It’s a methodical process, one that leaves no corner or closed door untouched. The bathroom’s first, with the shower curtain drawn ominously around the bath tub. Dean bats it aside and dances backwards but it’s safe, no knife wielding shadowy figure ready to jump out at him.

Next is the bedroom, he opens all of the closets and pushes his clothes aside; nothing but bed sheets and a long forgotten miniature Christmas tree.

Finally, he’s left with the living room and kitchen. Nothing save for a half empty bottle of wine on the counter. Dean pours himself a glass then he double locks the front door and all the windows.

Only then is he satisfied and he allows himself to sink down onto the couch, wine in hand.

He drinks it quickly; his intentions are to get drunk, not to savour the taste. It’s been sitting on the counter for hours now anyway, it tastes like vinegar.

Dean drinks the wine until his hands have stopped shaking. Then, he climbs unsteadily to his feet and moves into the bathroom. He turns the shower on to reach temperature and then he removes his clothes in silence.

He stands naked in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection. There’s bruising on his neck, mottling discolouration on his gut where Manu had kicked him. He hears his mother’s voice from childhood, _you bruise like a peach._ She’d say it with equal measures of fondness and exasperation, after he’d come in with bruised knees from chasing his brother down the garden. It’s still relevant today. It strikes him somewhat abstractly that he can’t honestly recall the last time he heard his mother’s voice.

Dean stands in front of the mirror until the room is filled with steam and his reflection fogs over. Only then does Dean step into the shower. He stands under the scalding spray and closes his eyes, letting the water sluice down his skin. When he cleans himself, his actions are methodical, well-rehearsed. He lathers and rinses, scrubbing his body and sparing no gentleness for the bruises.

There’s something inside of him, twisting his insides and making him nauseous. It threatens to crawl up out of him through his throat and he swallows convulsively because he knows that when it’s out, he’ll fall apart and he doesn’t want to. Not yet.

Dean stays in the shower for a long while, until the air is suffocatingly thick and the skin on his fingers and toes is pruning.

When he’s finally finished, he switches the water off and listens to the water gurgling down the drain. Then, with a towel wrapped around his waist, he steps out and wipes a small portal in the fogged up mirror. His skin is flushed now, his chest red and the bruising darkened, but he is clean.

Dean pulls on a pair of sweat pants and a clean tee that clings to his still damp skin and then he moves back into the living room. His phone is flashing, four missed calls from Adam.

He ignores them and grabs another bottle of wine. Then when he’s finished that, he turns to the bottle of Jack that has been sitting in his cupboard for months now.

Dean’s not much of a drinker normally, really he’s not. But tonight he is. Every time he closes his eyes he can see Manu’s face. His throat throbs and when he swallows he can still taste grease and beer.

He just wants to forget it all. At some point, Dean stands up to go to the bathroom and sits suddenly back down again when the room spins and tilts alarmingly around him. It’s then that he realises that he’s actually quite drunk, probably drunk enough. He thinks to himself that he’ll just lie down and have a quick nap on the couch, just until his world stops rolling.

He curls up and closes his eyes; to him it feels like only a second. He hears his phone ring and he grunts and rolls over and buries his face into the couch cushion.

There’s someone knocking on his door. He can hear someone calling his name. _Not here,_ Dean thinks, or says, he’s not quite certain which. _Dean’s not here right now. Call back never._

Distantly, he senses a presence and he cracks open an eye and turns his head to see a face hovering over him. They’re blurry and silhouetted and whoever it is needs to go away and leave him to sleep. He bats at the face with a floppy hand.

Someone nudges a glass of water into his hand and props him up. They guide the glass to his mouth and help him to drink. The water is cool against his raw throat. Then the glass is gone and he’s eased back down onto the couch.

There’s a weight on his shoulders and his shins, a blanket is draped over him. Dean buries his head under it and closes his eyes.

* * *

 

In his dreams, Dean is drowning. He’s at a lake. He knows this lake; he remembers visiting it as a child in Auckland. Only now he is full grown and he’s being held underwater by a man he can’t see.

Cold water fills his ears and his nose and when he opens his mouth he swallows it down into his lungs.

He fights to reach the surface but the hands holding him are too strong. They’re sealed around his neck, digging deeply, painfully, and stars are flashing in his vision.

Gradually, the face comes into focus. It’s Manu, his mouth set in an ugly snarl. But then the face changes and it’s Aidan holding him under, his expression angry and the word _coward_ spilling off his tongue. Aidan’s face becomes Richard’s. Only Richard isn’t angry, he’s sorry, so very sorry which almost makes it worse. Richard’s face shifts and morphs and as Dean’s vision dims and his heart pounds painfully in his chest, he sees every face he has ever known flash above him. Adam, Orlando, Luke, Jared, even Tim… until finally it is Ian. Ian with his papery skin and his tired smile. “ _We’re all dying, darling.”_ He says even though his lips don’t move. _“Every one of us. Even you.”_

Dean wakes up violently. Coughing and sputtering with the blanket tangled around his ankles. There are hands on his shoulders and a soothing voice shushing him and Dean sees Adam sitting there, his face pinched with worry.

Dean’s stomach rolls and he’s only just able to push Adam aside and race for the bathroom before every bit of alcohol he’d drunk the night before makes a violent reappearance.

Dean hunches pitifully over the toilet bowl, retching and coughing as his abused throat flares painfully with each spasm.

Adam’s in the kitchen when Dean finally re-emerges, shaking and tender, but mercifully empty of stomach.

“Graham called,” Adam explains when Dean shuffles into the kitchen. He hands Dean a mug of coffee, black, plenty of sugar. “He said he thought you’d need a friend.”

With his hands wrapped around the mug, absorbing the warmth, Dean perches gingerly on the counter and blows onto the steam. He’d figured Graham would probably tell either Adam or Orlando eventually. He supposes he should be grateful it’s not Orlando here right now. Taking a tentative sip, he notices that Adam is watching him with a strange expression and he’s suddenly uncertain of what to do with himself.

Adam’s gaze moves down to his neck, specifically the bruises, and his expression turns sad.

“Tell me what happened,” he says not unkindly.

“Bad client.”

“Was it that guy from before?”

Dean doesn’t reply. He doesn’t want to hear Adam tell him he told him so. He doesn’t think he can keep it together if he hears that. His grip tightens around the mug imperceptibly.

“Dean…” Adam begins gently and then he stops and he sighs.

 “I’m going back to bed.” Dean says and hops down before Adam can say anymore. “Thanks. For taking care of me last night.”

Adam sighs again, but he makes no move to stop him.

Dean hesitates in the doorway. “Will you still be here when I wake up?”

“I’ll still be here.”

Dean actually feels grateful for that.

* * *

 

Dean’s not certain how long he’s been asleep for, but when he wakes up it’s dark out so he assumes he must have slept through the entire day. He can hear the TV turned down low in the other room. It’s a comforting sound, reminds him he’s not alone.

He sits up slowly, groaning and rubbing his head. He feels more human than he had last time he woke up, but he’s still not great. Perhaps drinking so much hadn’t been the wisest of decisions. Climbing to his feet, he steps out into the living room.

Adam goes to press mute, but Dean waves a hand, signalling for him not to. He sinks down onto the couch with a tired sigh, massaging his closed eyelids.

“You look awful,” Adam comments.

“Thanks,” Dean says, not opening his eyes. “I feel terrible.”

Fingers touch his shoulder and Dean barely contains a flinch. Adam, noticing, tuts sadly.

“Don’t,” Dean says.

“What?”

“Whatever you’re going to say. You’re either going to ask why I went or why I’m not going to the police. Either one, don’t.”

“What’s going on, Dean?” Adam asks instead. Even without looking Dean can feel Adam’s eyes boring into him and he hunches his shoulders up, hand going up to hide his neck. “Are you in trouble?”

“What kind of trouble would I be in?”

“Well you’re not ok, are you? And it’s more than just this.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean snorts and he’s tired, he’s just so tired, he doesn’t want to deal with this. “I just needed money to pay the rent, it’s not like I had much choice.”

“You know I don’t care about the rent.” Adam takes Dean’s hand; he cups it between his own. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says, firmer than intended. More softly he adds, “I’ll be fine.”

“I’m here if you want to talk. About anything.”

“I know.” Dean squeezes Adam’s fingers and he smiles.

* * *

 

Over the course of the following week, Adam barely leaves Dean’s place. For the first few nights, he sleeps on Dean’s couch, or on the empty side of Dean’s bed, until Dean tells him that it’s mad and if he stays another night Orlando’s going to start suspecting something.

After that, Adam goes home each night, only to return the next morning with progressively weakening excuses like he’d forgotten to tell Dean something vitally important the night before, or the lady in 4B needed repairs doing so he thought he’d pop by while he was over here. Dean veers between irritation that Adam isn’t taking him for his word that he is fine and gratitude that Adam can plainly see that _I’m fine_ is a blatant lie.

Dean isn’t ok. But he’s trying to be.

Aidan tries to contact him once or twice. Or rather, Aidan tries to contact him twice by calling him and four times by text. Dean doesn’t respond. He switches permanently to his work number and ignores the telling looks Adam gives him.

One day, Adam turns up holding a bag of pastries and a bundle of papers under his arm. It looks like he raided the nearest news agents and stripped it bare.

“What’s all this?” Dean asks as Adam spreads them out on the coffee table and hands Dean the pastries.

“I was thinking about looking for a job,” Adam says.

Dean arches an eyebrow. “A job? You?”

“Oh don’t be an ass. Yes me! I have worked before, you know.”

“Yeah but… do you really need to? I thought your thing was property.”

Adam shrugs and pulls out a pen, opening one of the papers to the jobs section. He licks the nib of the pen even though it’s a ballpoint.

“Sometimes it can be good to work. It gets you out of the house, gets you socialising.”

Dean snorts. “I can understand that, I mean Orlando is pretty awful social company.”

“Dean,” Adam says, tone warning. “Behave.”

Grinning, Dean tears a chunk of Danish and shovels it into his mouth while Adam scans the listings, lips moving along as he reads.

“Hey you’ve worked in sales before haven’t you?”

“Once,” Dean says, voice muffled by the Danish. “Years ago. It was terrible, I wouldn’t advise it.”

“I don’t know maybe it’s different now. It could be fun don’t you think?”

“If you want.” Dean shrugs, unconvinced. Adam returns to the jobs. His finger stops at the arts and creativity section.

“Oh hey they’ve got a listing for events photographer here,” Adam says with deliberate nonchalance. “Weren’t you thinking about that once?”

That’s when it starts to sink in. Adam’s up to something and Dean’s beginning to realise exactly what that something is.

“You’re not looking for a job for yourself at all, are you?” He says and from the way Adam glances away guiltily, Dean knows he’s right. “You’re looking for me.”

“I just thought maybe...”

“Christ Adam.” Dean massages his temples, there's a pressure building there that he can't ever quite get rid of. “I don’t want another job.”

“What would it hurt looking? Maybe you’d find something you really like.”

“Orlando put you up to this, didn’t he?”

“No,” Adam says, obviously lying. “Well he might have suggested, but we both agree it could be good for you. We’re both really worried about you, Dean.”

“I’m fine!” He grits out, feeling dangerously close to snapping. Why is no one listening to him when he tells them he’s fine? Why does he have to keep convincing people over and over and over?

“You’re not though are you?

“Could we just drop this?”

“Dean…”

“No Adam!” And then he snaps, and words come out of him faster than he can stop them. “Please, if you keep going then we’re going to have a fight and then I’m going to lose you and I really, really need you to be around right now ok? So please could we just drop this?”

Adam is quiet for a long time, his mouth is tense and his eyes worried but finally, he loosens his jaw and sighs, nodding. “Ok,” he says. “I’ll drop it. But you’re not going to lose me, are you really scared about that?”

“No,” Dean says even though he kind of is. “I just mean… look if you want to help me right now it’d be good just to have your support not… I don’t know. You trying to 'show me the light' like a mini Orlando.”

“Mini Orlando what the fuck?” Adam says even as he pulls Dean into a hug, patting his back. “There’s nothing mini about me you asshole.”

Dean gives a teary laugh and closes his eyes, clinging to Adam like the lifeline he is.


End file.
